Golden wheat and
the heavy harvest moon—
an October calendar page from any given
year.
Plentiful crops—the barley brew and
feast—are always good,
the fullness of a breast, the ripe earth
waiting to be kissed
before the long, long sleep as the sun
dips low.
Let the good times roll with crawfish and
beer,
the Zydeco swing, the accordion bellowing
the Cajun two-step.
Let laughter linger for a night of measured
misrule.
It is pirogue heaven to eat and drink,
but as night rolls into inevitable dawn,
let there be the reaping of cloistered silence.
The time for carnival under incandescent
bulbs
passes with the whisper of a broom—vows
taken—
sweeping away the carnal chaff.
Let the pebble drop into the pond but
leave no ripples.
Let sparrows at dawn observe the monastic
rule,
the heart beating with a rhythm heard only
by the mute.
If there is a time for everything under
heaven,
let silence hold lease as the mind
withdraws.
Have we forgotten that the moon and wheat
made no noise
as they spun gold on the canvas of
deepening dusk
in order to become wise and, in the
fullness of time, grow old?
~William Hammett
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