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HARVEST TIME
burned-over dreams in the rusted oil drum
behind the white house of fallen child
midwest blown by the thundered storm
hedged branches, clumped together nearby
waiting to become ashes wafted cumulus
piles of browned cuttings lost to history
yet writing stems up greening between
the cracks in the disjointed concrete walk
behind the parsonage, weeds of wonder
between the slabs of the displaced past
in front raking my fallen memories up
shoving those windblown scatterings
off the green lawn dumping them over
down into the drainage-ditched pile
rising up, 3 feet of dry-colored splash
a crinkly mass of discarded leaving
bursting red, yellow, orange, and tan
for struggling kids-at-heart to jump in
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