After the Harvest
by Philip Quinlan
After the harvest and commotion,
after the shaking of the day:
a room lamp-litten by the spill-fire,
late summer thunder coming.
After the days of calculation,
timing the cutting to the flood:
unreckoned love, endurance
in light of lesser longing;
the waste haulmed up, ignited,
interred, the plough infolding.
After the garnering of sorrow
in all the years considered good,
after the calving and departing,
fall has another meaning:
the wheel no longer turning
at the well, no water-giving.
After the harvest, nothing:
the heart no longer haling.
Last fires of the year and ever
lit now the light is failing,
and, after all, ingathered.
