The Harvest Season

In fields of gold beneath the azure skies,
Where autumn’s gentle breath begins to sighs,
The season of the harvest now unfolds,
A tale of toil and bounty it beholds.

The sun hangs lower, casting amber light,
As shadows stretch to bid the day goodnight.
Cicadas sing their final, fleeting song,
While crickets join the chorus, loud and strong.

The farmers rise before the break of day,
With calloused hands and hearts that never sway.
Through dewy fields they walk with purpose clear,
To gather fruits of labor, year by year.

The wheat stands tall, its heads a golden hue,
A sea of rippling gold in morning dew.
With scythes in hand, they cut with rhythmic grace,
Their movements honed by time and nature's pace.

The cornfields rustle in the autumn breeze,
Their stalks are bent but full, like verdant seas.
Ears heavy with the promise of the land,
Are plucked by weathered, yet still tender hands.

The orchards blush with apples ripe and sweet,
Where children run with laughter in their feet.
They climb the trees to pick the crimson prize,
And taste the season’s nectar, pure and wise.

The pumpkins grow, like suns upon the earth,
Their roundness speaks of harvest’s hearty mirth.
In rows they sit, awaiting eager hands,
To carve their faces, join the festive bands.

Vineyards stretch beneath the fading sun,
Where grapes are gathered, one by precious one.
Their skins are taut with juice of summer’s heat,
To press them into wine, a future treat.

In gardens, roots and tubers swell and grow,
Potatoes, carrots, beets in earthy glow.
The soil gives forth its treasures from the deep,
A gift of sustenance for all who reap.

The barns are filled with hay and autumn’s yield,
A testament to what the land can wield.
Grains are stored in silos, high and wide,
A promise kept through winter’s time to bide.

The air is crisp, with scents of earth and hay,
As twilight fades to night from gentle day.
The harvest moon ascends, a golden orb,
Its light a guide to those who work and absorb.

In homes, the hearth is lit with glowing fire,
Families gather, sharing food and choir.
The feast is laid with bounty of the earth,
A celebration of the season’s worth.

The pies are baked with spices warm and sweet,
Pumpkin, apple, all the flavors meet.
Cider simmers, fragrant with the clove,
A drink to warm the soul, and love to strove.

The tales are told of harvests long ago,
Of ancestors who plowed and watched crops grow.
Their spirits linger in the fields they knew,
In every grain, their legacy holds true.

As night descends, the stars begin to shine,
A constellation of the farmer’s sign.
They guide the weary back to homes so dear,
Their presence felt as autumn draws near.

The cycle turns, the seasons come and go,
From seed to sprout, to harvest’s final show.
The earth, it gives, and we, in turn, must care,
For every season’s gift is ours to share.

So let us honor those who till the land,
With grateful hearts and ever-helping hand.
For in the harvest, life’s true riches lie,
A bond between the earth and sky.

In fields of gold beneath the fading light,
Where autumn whispers softly to the night,
The season of the harvest sings its song,
A timeless melody, both pure and strong.