Summer's End - A Poem

I wrote the following poem in 2006, and it appeared in the Samhain 2006 issue of "Matrifocus - A Cross-Quarterly for the Goddess Woman," an on-line collection of lore, poetry, photos, and writing which, sadly, is no longer being produced.  I've seen bits and pieces of the poem circulating on-line, and it seemed right to republish it here on my own blog.

Summer's End

by Holin Kennen

The gates of summer, once open wide 

like the arms of absent friends begin to close haltingly 

with rusty hinges creaking in cool mornings.

The fireflies that rose in steaming clouds 

from humid backyard lawns
have disappeared overnight 

as though deported to another country,
leaving thrumming cicadas overhead

pulsing like high voltage wires.

Now great baskets of tomatoes

sunset crimson and dusky orange,
delicate raspberries, their jeweled caps 

painting picking fingers purple, with seeds like tiny pearls

sweet and tart with days of rain and sun,

await the sauce pots and canning jars 

to hold their garnet ripening.
Standing at the counter putting up fresh corn 

long after time for sleep
knife swiftly parting kernels from the cob

white and gold, milk dripping
the corgi puppy gnawing fiercely at the one cob left for him
scatters kernels, golden beads 

tossed along the blood red floor.
The pressure of the dimming light 

to hold to growth and life a while longer
knowing that surrender to the dark will come

that gates must close as well as open.
I lie next to you in bed, just touching

listening to distant thunder by the river
your steady breathing, the dog, the cat at the foot of the bed, 

regular as clocks.
Dreaming of red seeds and blood 

the corn, the crimson jam and rust red sauce
as my own last blood begins to flow 

into this jar of late summer night.
Waiting for my womb's gate to close 

to hold inside a few precious ruby seeds,
praying I have harvested enough, put by enough 

to feed me when I'm old.