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Tide of Harvest
In this tide of Harvest, a longing awakens in me
for the mad, cold, dark of winter's wailing winds,
belling like the hounds of the mythic hunt of old.
I grow fey in the season of reaping and cutting
and remember ancient days and dreams.
I am kin to another time and an older way.
I am the reaper, the scythe and the grain.
I am the vine, the grapes, and the knife.
I am the apple, the press and the cider.
I am the wealth of the land and the lash of the storm queen,
waiting.
© Laurel Mendes
