Sunday Scribbling: Harvest

This week the writing prompt is 'harvest.' I could talk about pumpkins and corn and wheat, but why do that when I can wax morose?

In the autumn
I gather my sorrows
Until the field is empty
Exhausted
I wipe my forehead
With the back of my hand
And look at the stubble
All around me
I smell dirt and
Barrenness

My shoulders stoop
Under the weight
Of my bitter harvest.
Downcast,
I draw no comfort
From the thought that
Come spring
I will once again
Sew my field
With regret