Karen M. Rice
The corn is in the cribs, the hay in stacks,
The torch has been set to the stalks.
Over field, down the rills, the September smoke walks.
Autumn leaves in shades of gold and brown have been gathered,
Here and there about the valley they lie in smoldering piles.
Across the land, up to the hills, the September smoke walks.
Smoke hangs loose and walks about the land,
Is it only smoke, or do the spirits of the ancestors walk,
When the September smoke walks from hill to mountain slope?
©Copyright September 2007 by Karen M. Rice