Winter Counts Our Votes
Winter Counts Our Votes
Tonight, the Hunter’s Moon hangs above us like a copper lantern in the rafters of a country gone to seed.
Our ancestors hunted, slaughtered, salted, and stored against the winter’s teeth; the Celts watched the seeds fall, while Native traditions marked the drying rice and the leaves surrendering their green.
Now, with November’s midterms stalking the calendar, America, too, is taking inventory of its provisions, its promises, and the meat left on the bone. The politicians circle the harvest like foxes around a henhouse, each promising a fuller pantry while the cost of filling it climbs beyond the common table.
Beneath this pale, unblinking witness, the leaves come down, the rhetoric piles up, and the electorate must decide what deserves preserving, what has spoiled, and what ought to be put out with the refuse before winter settles in for a long stay.
—--
Hunter’s moon glows red,
Foxes feast, the leaves fall down,
Winter counts our votes,
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I hope that winter treats America well and gives you a new president very soon. The simile in the opening sentence is perfect, Chris, and the haiku sums up the prose so well.
ReplyDeleteI hope that the world turns USA back into sanity.
ReplyDeleteIndeed, the bleak harvest of midterms waits in the wings of shorter days and longer nights. I enjoyed how you weaved the Autumn imagery into the political commentary.
ReplyDeleteFoxes feast in the henhouse for sure. Go in average come out rich!
ReplyDelete