Not Soon Enough

My memory chirps
with the days I was limp
from heat
and waiting for
the last flutters of robin red
or flash of blue birds

A gull in the turned fields
and the smell of the earth,
fresh after harvesting the last hay,
makes so much sense
on the top of the rake
pulled behind the old International.

I welcome the crunch of leaves
and the chill that has me
hightailing it
under the thick layers
of blankets
and early nightfall.