Harvest

by Sibyllene

The world swelling
big gourd fleshy bulk,
ripe like a pumpkin,
seeds hanging in their places -
the flesh of an apple so
meticulous symmetrical,
round and dialed, and the numbers
on ghosty clock faces, they don't exist,
trip tick tocking away a river
without end, time flows between henge stones-
a circle of seeds
grown from green mounds,
sliced open to be tasted and planted, and there
are points of light in your round eyes, rhythm to your kisses,
kissing away the phases of a waxing moon,
ripe and full as pumpkin.