Harvest

Why the shriek, headstones? Why in
this throbbing sun, this dip and sway
of wind-bellied August hay, is it you alone
who keen? Because it is not you,
to be, at last, harvested today?

Your earthly keep, cropped close,
black-railed, tempts no gatherer.
No thresher fells your angry howling,
your hollow whistle in the ruffled bright.
No baler twines unyielding marble
as food against a growing quiet.

The clock sings.

Your chiseled sides pick and flare the light.
You are foolish arabesques, braggarts flush
with glittering coins of sun. Yet headstones,
is your business not entirely transacted?

by Timothy Nolan

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