this used to be the time for bountiful harvest;
not so much anymore;
today’s crops have been treated to yield in phases
around the world,
gathered with giant machines, temporary labor;
chemicalized, vacuumed, colored, plasticized, trucked
to the not so super markets
and
it ain’t the same as it once was —
your call on better or worse,
not mine;
but
i remember
and
tonight, coming home from an alfresco dinner,
the declining, reclining sunset red dipped beyond
the horizon
where i used to steam west
chasing the dying red sunset
while tonight,
the waxing gibbous moon,
only a couple of days
from becoming the full harvest moon,
hung from an invisible heavenly string,
over what we now call Mexico
defined by a line
turned into a wall
to keep people out,
not like in Berlin
but no less restrictive from fear,
a yoyo with the string
held by mars overhead, glowing red
as it had for the ancients
who named it the red planet
and
the night was clear and chilled
as if the night knew
it really was harvest time
even if
we have the luxury
to forget.