Hear me
read
the poem as
an MP3 file.
Fruit abounds amid the press of labor.
Old, abandoned plants produce sweet plums.
Rivers run unseen through ripening fields.
The heartscape sings, dreams unremembered answer.
Youthful still, the mother waits and listens.
There is much in summertime to savor,
Hard though the work until the harvest comes.
Revel, then, in what all seasons yield,
Even as each leaf becomes a dancer,
Even as the white world gleams and glistens.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.
Subscribe to this site on Substack
Subscribe to this site on YouTube