First Lesson in Time

All summer we watched

(while we were doing other things)

the field of soybeans flourish, round

green leaves fluttering to fullness,

and then for three brief days in September,

turn gold while the grackles flew in

as in Van Gogh’s last painting, their

hovering blackness an

interruption above the golden field.

Then the leaves fell and the lonely pod-bearing

stalks stood rust-colored and dry

until the combines came

like armored tanks before the promised rain,

making us run for the porch cushions while an

orange cloud rose and the fragile stalks

gave way to machines with snouts

like elephant trunks to pour the golden

beans into the beds of silver trucks.

My grandson pressed his face against the glass

of the kitchen door and safely watched the giant’s teeth

just yards from the house now–comb through the

stalks and suck them up

as it huffed and puffed, sending

billows of bean dust into the air,

stirring his three-year-old’s wonder

at summer’s decisive end

and the clean sweep of the harvested field

like his chalkboard, erased, and waiting

another season.              

                                   Barbara Lockhart




This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to First Lesson in Time

  1. Why have I not read that before? Beautiful. Reads like a painting.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s