Aftermath

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.

A Lone Pine Cone

There lies a pine cone on top of the freshly cut grass,
In June it sticks out like a sore thumb among the green mass.

How did it end up in the middle of the field,
Hidden from the machine’s blades — it remains concealed.

The towering forests cast their shadows overhead,
Offering protection to the cone’s attempt to spread.

It has avoided creatures, elements and people — it now waits,
There is no certain future for the cone as it lies in dire straits.