The barn into which we gathered our harvest Outlined by the November sunset, reminds us: What's done is done What's not done is not done and will not be Not this time The season for growing is over The trees stand on ceremony Few of their leaves Each painted By the palette of the Divine Artist Still clinging to limbs They wait for the inevitable When winter's winds will strip what's left Of what Spring wrought on their branches When the season was full of promise November's love for us is unrequited Until that time When November is all we have that remains When there is nothing left to gather into the hayloft And we will wonder: Will it be enough To satisfy the Master of the Harvest Who does not reveal How He will weigh the fruits of our labor? The sun sets over the fields Marked by monuments of granite and marble Engraved with the names of the laborers Who have set aside their plows And entered into their rest Listening for our prayers That beckon the Master To