The Minor Mood
Was it some Etruscan vase that held the word
after the potter spun his wheel,
or maybe feallan-death the way?
The minor movements,
come and go,
bridge blaze and freeze, the major moods.
Her sun has been, the moon must be,
she knows that heat will know it cold.
While poets scribed season’s fall to spring,
autumn gained on harvest’s call,
despite the patient, ready, waiting fruit –
but lacking Latin’s follow vowel,
it ends in silence, as will she.
When food is drawn back into tree,
the greens leave first, the carrot last,
remaining stems are waterproofed,
then hormone cuts the leaves away.
Must she accept that it is best,
with pollards, slivers, some hanging on,
the green, the amber, the red too,
the future fed, protective guard, free auxin break,
so leaf is turned.
Slow water floats must pool away,
sad fading leads fresh buds again.
So she will wait.
Stephen Kingsnorth, 67, is retired from ministry in the Methodist Church. He has had pieces accepted for publication by Nine Muses Poetry; Voices Poetry Blog; Eunoia Review; Runcible Spoon; Ink Sweat and Tears; The Poetry Village; The Seventh Quarry; Gold Dust; From the Edge and Allegro Poetry Magazines. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/