Spirit of the Harvest ©Pakura

I am. Alive. Awakened. I am at one with you, green. With you, leaves, I am at one. I can feel the breeze on my skin like you, and I bend, I won’t break. The sun caresses my cheek, tenderly, as I caress you, sweet fruit, juicy vegetable. I taste you, allow you to melt on my tongue, swallow your flavours, absorb them to my very inside, so you are also at one with me. The wonderful scents that tickle my nose, the colours that delight my eyes. How beautiful you are. How beautiful I am. Alive. Am I.

My sister who cools her feet, heated from the summer’s mugginess, in the babbling brooks and has to bear the whole power of the mighty sun has gone to sleep. But you, nature, are still awake, give me what your lap produced while I was away. Your countenance is different from that of our young sister who kisses the buds alive in spring. Your face has a more mature complexion, but it does not lack appeal. My skin shines golden in the sun which still makes head against milky fogs. And look, there’s a lonely butterfly. It does not know that soon my third sister will spread her white coat covering all this before you sink into a deep slumber, my beloved nature.

Spirit of the Harvest in the Grass ©Pakura

I’m sitting here in the grass, which is still lush and green. And I am pleased when I gaze at you, you golden spike. You cobs, corn you, you apple, potatoe you. They throw you carelessly into the pantry, the people, and transform you into fine food when it gets cold and the time freezes. But they don’t really look at you. Although your beauty is breathtaking. How perfect every grain sits in the cob, How even and smooth your skin feels, fruit, so soft and comforting. And bright yellow meets orange and red and brown and green, so much green. My heart jumps of joy when I look at you, when I feel you with my fingertips which are getting colder as dusk creeps to my feet.

I feel. You. And me, even. I feel my skin being sensitive as I rub over the rough surface of a trunk. I’m shivering and a frosting of fine hairs is covering my skin as soon as the evening breeze blows the leaves from my hair. I long to be in your warm arms now, but you’re not here. You do not see me. You can feel me, but you will not allow to feel what you don’t want to feel since it doesn’t match the rush of your life and how modern it is. Every time you feel that stitch, this pulling in the lowest part of your abdomen, when your heartbeat speeds up, when a twitch enters your mouth because a smile wants to push on your lips, you shake your head. “No,” you tend to say silently to yourself every time it happens, “this is not true. This is not logical. That’s- I am. I do exist and so do my desires. Nothing else.” And then you push me away, because you do not believe in me. Even though I am always with you. With every tick of the clock. In each pulse beat. Now, with this very exhale.

You do not believe. In spirits. Or this inner connection. I do not exist in your head, because you don’t want me to. And yet, I am. With you. Even now. Open your eyes, and you can see me. I’m with you, when the leaves rustle. I whisper to your ear when the wind pushes against your window and silently weeps. I crawl over your skin on your neck when the rain wets your face and the cold drops soak your warmth before they flow down and become at one with you. I am at one. Also with you. You can be at one with me, if you allow it. If you feel and taste and see and smell and hear. And think. Of me. The spirit of the harvest. I’m yours, and all this is also your fruit. They do not belong to anyone, and so do I, nonetheless we exist for everyone. I am at one with everything. But I do love you and only you. Even more than beautiful nature and my sisters. Because you are imperfect, but you do forget that fact. And because you’re afraid to feel more. But you are. At one. With me.

©Maria Pakura