Harvest Song: my Lughnasadh offering

Come, the harvest – with its gold
braceleting the furrow.
The dowry of mankind,
warding off the winter

that lurks unseen, a ghost
from a nervous child’s dream.
The gold mother comforts us
with circling arms of grain.

Come, the harvest – the neighbors
call, the bridles jangle,
cart wheels creak – hands that share
work share the stuff of life.

For what is bounty unshared?
It would rot in the fields
without the fellowship
that waters it, kin to rain

and sun. Come the harvest,
with its sweat and its song,
with dollies and dances,
our arms lifting up bales –

hearts forgetting grievance,
forgiving our failures.
The sweat purifies us.
The wagon brings us home.


About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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