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Mornings come later now,
permeated with scent of harvest,
green and red and the bright orange
of the Harvest Moo.

Morning air, heavy with moisture
seeps through my pores
into my bones.
I see roiling ships caught in rough sea,
their fortune a deity’s toss of dice,
or whim.
Ships laden with treasure,
sailors desperately loved.
Synchronistic vision,
on a placid pond three ships sail
a fine sunny regatta.
No longer await on the sickle,
deep fade of harvest
beckons to prescient chores.