Lughnasadh

Fruits of First Harvest hang heavy on vines
As stalks of grain ripen to gold
Sweet the juices as warm they run
To stain fingers of both young and old.
Feast on the freshness that now abounds
Storing away for the future
For days that turn colder
When the frost bites the bloom
And the fields lie fallow in slumber
Under a distant and cold winters moon.

~Koneta 2012