The rolling hills of Lancaster turn golden

As the Amish begin the harvest.

The plow horses pull the wagons

Driven by the

Clasping hands on pumpkin stems

Squirells stuffing acorns in their dens

Tractors rolling through the fields

To gather for

Poetry: Harvest Time

I sowed my oats both wild and free,

I sowed them oh, so recklessly.

Now harvest brings them back to

Crispy spiced maple leaves
clinging to their swaying trees are
waltzing with the wood-smoke breeze
on a mushroom padded dance

Rejoice in Nature's generosity
For it is Harvest Time
Gather up all Her offerings
While still ripe and in their prime

Do not