Beth King
The harvest moon has just bestowed itself upon the dark night sky, the first time we’ve seen our moon since the season of the midnight sun. Effortlessly, I find myself in the dirt, damp from the first frost. The air smells of highbush cranberries. In the morning, the sun penetrates your cheeks like a goodbye kiss. The potatoes—purple, yellow, red—loosen like gold from the ground. I pull the stems, shake, one, two, three—even the little ones count. We’ll eat them all year, give them to friends. Oh, I’ll miss when harvest time ends.
