It's November again - already. Time for elections, Thanksgiving dinners and parades, and the last of the summer harvests. We had our first frost this past week, an event that always makes me think of gathering in the fruits of summer and storing them for the long winter hiatus, the time when the earth lies cold and dormant peacefully awaiting the resurgence of life in the spring.
My harvests, such as they were, are over. Yesterday as I mowed the leaves in the front yard, I snapped a few small tomatoes off of the dying plant and enjoyed those as I pushed the mower through the brown and yellow leaves. What the frost has not yet killed, it soon will.
In today's poem, "After Apple-Picking" by Robert Frost, the farmer uses his skills as a poet to relate the apple harvest and his personal need for a long sleep. Mr. Frost describes the apples by their appearance, touch, smell, sound, and taste. He even shares what it feels like to stand long hours on a ladder. He is a man consumed by the work he has just performed - in every sense of the word.
Pick your apples and then rest. That's the way of work - and of life.
by Robert Frost