-This poem reflects on the final hay bale left in a harvested field, where summer’s light and labor are gathered into something preserved for the days beyond the season.
At the far edge of the cut field,
one bale remains beneath the sun,
round and gold against the stubble,
where summer’s labor has grown still.
The others left in dust and diesel,
lifted one by one from the rows,
but this one keeps the afternoon,
alone beneath the widening blue.
It holds the scent of grass and heat,
of sharpened blades and working hands,
the long green season gathered down,
into something made to last.
So much of late summer rests here,
in what is stored, and what remains,
one golden weight upon the earth,
keeping sunlight for another day.