POEM: Harvest

The season is showing off its clenched jaw again.
Even the light looks sullen
and the gulls, who normally just laugh
all summer long in the heat, are grimmacing.

We are nothing if not the collection of scars
we harvest over a lifetime;
the ones we pick up like nettles
as we lope through each day
toward that great party that awaits us.

If lucky, we get to show off the accretion of things
we've collected throughout the visit to this place,
all the while, hiding the knowledge
that the inevitable destination is the landfill
or the compost pile,
Like the hardy mums that smile
while shivering in the new born cold air,
pretending that winter will never come.