Harvest

(c) Steve King 2012

All rights reserved

The first chore in the morning

was to gather our tomatoes.

Night bestowed new color:

each fruit in waiting

blushed in its awakening,

yielding easy to the hand.

Footprints in heavy dew

attended on my solitude,

and I would smile

imagining that one had followed:

you.

Something like a dream,

to find a way

through the in-between

of starshine and dawn.

There is a poet’s word

for that kind of light,

but needless—

I had already seen.

And I would linger,

waiting while you dreamed,

pausing in my pleasantries,

harvesting the fruits of morning light,

while you clung to our shadows,

cleaving to the bounty of the night.