Golden wheat and
the heavy harvest moon—
an October calendar page from any given year.
Plentiful crops—the barley brew and
feast—are always good,
the fullness of a breast, the ripe earth waiting to be kissed
before the long, long sleep as the sun
Let the good times roll with crawfish and beer,
the Zydeco swing, the accordion bellowing
the Cajun two-step.
Let laughter linger for a night of measured misrule.
It is pirogue heaven to eat and drink,
but as night rolls into inevitable dawn,
let there be the reaping of cloistered silence.
The time for carnival under incandescent bulbs
passes with the whisper of a broom—vows
sweeping away the carnal chaff.
Let the pebble drop into the pond but
leave no ripples.
Let sparrows at dawn observe the monastic rule,
the heart beating with a rhythm heard only
by the mute.
If there is a time for everything under heaven,
let silence hold lease as the mind
Have we forgotten that the moon and wheat made no noise
as they spun gold on the canvas of
in order to become wise and, in the fullness of time, grow old?