Category: Stephen Jones

by Stephen Jones

The summer’s done, the season’s done,
And you’ve been on a very long journey.
The rising road no longer winds so much, and
On both sides, the once-lush fields are empty.
Autumn flickers like a golden fish.
You drive between here and tomorrow.

.                                                  And

It’s no surprise, that you pass roadside stands
Selling end-of-season distractions.
You see peach baskets full of analytics
(For wintering over, like last year’s apples),
Crates clearly marked Hustle and Muscle,
(But with dates that have now expired),
Stacks — like cords of wood — of guaranteed
Live arms (these also root-cellar bound),
Boxes and boxes of spins and grips, and
Canning jars of freshly made good stuff.

.                                                  And

Up ahead, on the road’s gravel shoulder,
Just before the winter turn,
Fired managers hold out their thumbs.

.                                                  Meanwhile,

A dusty red pickup honks, then passes you.
It’s full of young talent, like day workers, and
Heads back to the farm.