THIRTY-SIX DEGREES
Blue Thanksgiving, a raft of fog at dawn
between the peaks drifts upcanyon, drips
off lime and lemon leaves – no white frost.
Last night’s logs, gray ash – old smudge pot
cold but ready to reenlist, don flaming helmet
to purr like a kitten beside the grapefruit,
a month away from ripe red juice.
The earth has opened-up, deep with rain –
it breathes off trees and grass, all exhaling
a damp, azure veil between us and the world.
About the harvest, packing the last bushel or
lug box to the shed – pass the jug and grin
with familiar faces, between swallows, lucky
and humble to look up at once upon a time.