Harvest
Morning Colossal columbines combine, entwine each other's tails leaving trails trailing in their wake; awake feel free float river flow cross the morning sunset colors reflecting off reeds and reef huts. In the fields the mice scatter to avoid the blood encrusted all-pervasive splatter of the approaching combine harvester.
Old Man Sylvester is seated atop the seedy beast, like medieval knight upon age-old steed, his cap tilted to block the bloated red wheel in the sky and prevent it, at all costs, entering his premature ejaculate and the heat of the moment.
Little Lady Princess child of his makes marks in the lawn learning to balance on the grassy waves which wave in the Mother Earth weave; she leaves the family homestead far behind, in low ebb it drifts off to the side of her consuming affiliation with the pictures in her very own mental playground.
Grounded inside the garden plot, Old Woman Witch wishes for a feast the size and stature to rival the Greek god statues stretching infinitely along the guarded palatial walls way back in the past, some numb reverie.
Three times a lady knocked upon her door and was ignored; intuitive though she was, ignorant she could be, and icicles leant precariously inwards toward the windows dressed in dewdrop frozen frost. Someone had a vision saw them as snakes with spitting venom hanging from the eaves there, the drain pipe excrement, in garden of Eden-like style unleash themselves and crash-dagger, in through the kitchen window and land upon a lump of lard waiting for the family breakfast gathering, pierce through mahogany-grain table top and echo in a peel of breaking-up laughter clatter before beginning the irrevocable melt into the cracks and evaporate in the warm internal womb smells of cast-iron stove heating heather and cloves.
Cold outside learning to race the bicycle around the old gingko tree centered lawn, spiraling inwards, whirlpool obsessed sucked by the stories she's telling herself in low blood-sugared haze. The cat wanders up through the garden gate rubbing radiant-haloed fur against spiky rough wood fervently half feverish and in heat. The weeding woman pauses to pick a peppered moth from a plum tomato already mushed and moldy from frost nip and heaves a sigh of sympathy for friendliness — epitome of empty-heart-room-to-give in a dark-eyed cat after morning killing mewing and mowing itself against a crouched leg.
Old man, young man, younger than youth yells out a magician's superstitious spell above the din at half past the hour and has a prayer to offer the combine gods in exchange for one good year, another. . . good god, we've hit a rock and the rig rolls under the strain of warped blades and bloodstained earth. The mice and men scatter before the death machine dying, harvesting life and turning it under for fall's felling food purpose.
The earth does not pause even slightly for the smallest illusory loss, though friends and relatives are ill with grief and grope, grasping at anything amenable to conquer the thirst felt first in fears, tears which crash through colored glass into warm caves and pierce the soft centers of flower arrangements, prepared to celebrate conquered disunity and separated states of mind.
Solidify slowly into the cream of the crop the lard, in which lovers laze hourly passing years through the daylight, moonshine delight and dances into the daze; the family gathers familiarly around the frayed fringes of the dressed desert mesa-plateau world of wonder and amazement at godlike gifts plowed with papa's prayers, which beckon now to be begun.
Dig in, knives fly and the bacon and eggs fry Old Man and Old Woman lie and ignore Little Lady's cry of creation in the crux of the matter as, out of the blue and mad as a hatter, there it is, a gentle pitter-patter of feet outside, beneath the bent blue ice sheet, and a rap upon the door, twice more and an icicle feels itchy, crashes through glass, lard, and table, to the floor; and the sun, no longer obstructed, slices into the old man's frozen heart, like a venomous dart.
Someone lets out a sweet-smelling fart; Witchy Woman falls to the floor in ecstatic attainment and begins to feed on the fabulous feast as section upon section of her recent husband now recumbent begins to fry under the free-floating friction, and their union-made daughter begins to largely laugh, spouting fabulous fiction into the farcical fiasco.
"I always knew the neighbors were near, but no-one ever knew how nearby they really were," remarked a rambling rover in search of a cup of tea which was never full enough for the fool who gave them three knocks and no chance in hell and unleashed an icicle's fall upon them all, demonstrating the message of the All.