The Harvest Becomes Forgotten

November 2020

The harvest can become forgotten
As we grab at the saltshaker, the fire poker, the wireless mouse,
the last-emptied bottle, the rug the door, the gun from the closet the knife from the kitchen.
The torn apart calendar that marked the moons and days crossing,
grabbing at the plans we had as weapons run low before anger.

The harvest can become forgotten
Shortening stubble fields coffee brews and television news and ready for school
the not-worry for one thing that makes room for another.
That press of evening is forgotten.
That weather rumble, forgotten
Those thousand tearings, forgotten
Forgotten as light sifts this cold morning, the low pond the last with those high sides matted
even higher with the grasses never mowed down.

The harvest can become forgotten
as can the recipe for an ex-husband’s birthday dish
As can the love shining through an angry man’s face
As can be the drive to camp
As can be your chosen favorite film
The thousand steps get forgotten
and again an empty vessel walks aware into
the shed and looks for the trailer linchpin.