Mother Rang

When mother rang
the winter bell,
at the end of Sun’s rise,
we fell upon the feast
she made, and felt
the chill in our bones.

The fire burns,
woodsmoke smell,
succulent reds,
oranges, and yellows,
eaten from the graying
grass where they fell.

One should not waste
the fruits of summer.

When Autumn dries the seeds,
rest assured that mother’s feast,
when renewed, will feed us well.

For now, heed the call,
and meet us in the banquet hall.

Mother wishes it so.

Gather among
the fallen leaves
and break this bread
before the breeze
goes cold – grapes,
seized and withdrawn,
refusing to yield
any wine at all.


©️ CG Tenpenny, 2018.

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