our folklore days

put away the canvas, now--it has all been painted white
huddle close, listen, now, to the stillness of the night

the hens running free, the ducks and the geese merry
the weight of a ripe melon measured in your palm
and black seeds from the yellow and red fruit spat pleasurably to the sand at your feet

the days are spinning now, harder and faster than before
and you are careening toward something you can't see
oh, hold on in your dizziness, hold tight

the blooms of shy sunflowers fading now
once saffron and amber, ivory and gold
the roundness of each august peach in your hand
now turning to an apple, an oblong pear

the days are slipping away, dandelions blown by the wind
the harvest is coming, the harvest is here
put away the canvas, let it rest with your sweet summer dreams
bind up your bare feet, braid the wild farmer hair into the attention of your studies

come closer, now, lock your fingers in mine
we will fall into the leaves of autumn
rejoicing, we will brave the winter together

let the shimmering strips of fabric dance on in the shifting winds