Last week, I reluctantly grabbed my garden gloves and wheelbarrow.
After a summer of swimming in tomatoes and watermelon and chamomile, I was done with the garden. Sick of cucumbers and bug bites and weeds. But the weather app warned that the first real frost was on its way so I pulled on my boots and went to collect the final harvest.
Ten minutes. Ten minutes of dirt under my nails and fresh air in my lungs. That was all it took before I remembered how much I love this ground. Autumn was sharp on the breeze. The crows were serenading and the mums were blatantly showing off.
I was tired. Over-worked. Bored. But just a few minutes in the wild world worked magic on my weary soul. As I say in the featured poem, autumn is the best evangelist.
Just about the time that the frost rolled in, Collected Magazine released their latest issue: Harvest. Four of my poems found a home there, and they are in excellent company.
It's full of good pickings. Art. Poetry. Prose. Check it out. The harvest is ripe.