Transformation

Geschrieben von: David Richards

The boiling pot, the sizzling hum
await the sum of the season.
Into the wheatfields the colors run,
the frolicing colors of Summer.
Swirling and melting
they disappear
under the harvesting hand of Autumn.

The time of toil passes.
The farmers fade from view.
In their stead a mound of gold,
a honey-bundle stands or two.