one last harvest

Farmer with a Pitchfork — Winslow Homer (1836–1910) — public domain

slipping into life’s late afternoon I watch my shadow grow and bloat feasting on my hoarded memories their contours and their colours fading widow’s black prevailing razor sharp outlined and ponderous and though I’m yearning for a rest and eye the empty hammock slung between the leafy twins there’s still this garden plot of words to till and seeds to sow watch them grow pull out the weeds for one last harvest of songs and hymns perhaps a worthy story for the few who care to read then toss whatever’s left onto the poet’s compost heap