Harvest

by S. I. Brubaker

I cannot give myself to you;
I am not mine (not mine to give).
Look up, at the great sky blue—
This sky holds as does a sieve
The joy of deepest Heav’n. It breaks in,
This morning, over frost-paved fields
And plunders Earth of all we thought we’d win,
And nothing stands before the sword it wields.
We cannot stand: Not you, not I.
We waver beneath the barren sky
And shiver in the coming cold
Until the day grows ripe and old,
Each watching each with waiting mind
And hoping neither one grows blind.

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A poet, lover of trees, and splasher-in-creeks, S. I. Brubaker has a deep love of story and word, mythos and logos. She heads the Kingfisher Quarterly, which she founded with a mission to publish excellent poetry, fiction, and nonfiction by aspiring young writers, work that serves as a signpost pointing further in and further up. She lives in a little hollow in the farmland of Pennsylvania through which a creek flows and occasional small dust devils make life interesting.