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Harvest Moon

September creeps in
far beyond the keenness of our senses.
At first turgid and heavy,
hidden behind the last stubborn agitations of summer,
subtly it charms its way beneath the heavy weight
of humid hotness, that forced languor seemingly without end.
It teases away the heat with the richness of the coming harvest,
of colors other than the oppressiveness
of endless green,
with sweet, cool breezes
spiced with the promise of winter.

You rise then, bright and full,
a gleaming golden pearl
suspended in the dripping sweetness
of Your own yearning.

You shower the world
with the blessings of Your presence,
all Your playfulness carefully subsumed
in the steadiness of mature wisdom.
For when the harvest beckons
You rise above us
Neither old nor young,
but ripe with the richness of experience.

I would wrap myself about then,
in the golden cloak of Your presence,
possibly to stave off the winterís chill,
possibly merely to burrow
deep into the steadiness of Your ancient arms.

In the ever colder nights of autumnís blessings,
sometimes my only prayer is this:
that in some lifetime I might be permitted
to grow old wrapped in the embrace
of the harvest moon.

It is not my wyrd;
but in the face of such glorious beauty,
if beauty be the word for such divine magnificence,
such a wish occasionally wends its way upwards
in the darkness.

© Galina Krasskova

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