Harvest Moon

The moon rises
from the milky bed
of her own luminescence
golden sphere balanced
on the horizon.
I feel the magic of the world.

Harvest my thoughts, oh goddess.
Through the planting season,
beneath bright sun and midnight shade,
with tears and sweat
I laid them down.

Dormant seeds,
some gathered from last year’s crop,
some given,
clutched tightly in my damp palm
and then released,
arcing into the fertile dark loam
of memory.

They crept,
vining their way
across time, space and
my heart,
until I was covered with
green.

Goddess, come to light the harvest.
Thoughts crunch
beneath my feet,
turn to brown
as the circle closes.
The moon is round
and she rises.