The Spirit of the Harvest Moon

Rise, rise, oh lantern of gold,
Crowned in the twilight where stories are told.
You bloom in the sky like an orchard in flame,
The Spirit of Harvest that calls us by name.

With robes made of honey and silk spun from dusk,
You glow on the fields still rich with the musk
Of apples that blush in the cool autumn air,
Of pumpkins like embers that smolder and flare.

The wheat bows in waves as the night breezes blow,
The scarecrow stands watch in his shadowed tableau.
The crows in the distance call out from the trees,
As the rustle of leaves hums a soft melody.

You watch from above as the world slows its pace,
While firelight flickers on every small face.
The farmers look up with their hands stained in soil,
Their backs bent from labor, their hearts full of toil.

"Look how she shines," says the old man with pride,
"The moon always knows when the harvest’s inside."
His wife lights a lantern and hums an old song —
A song that the crickets and katydids prolong.

For the Spirit of Harvest is not just the glow
That crowns every stalk where the golden seeds grow.
She is the breath of the soil, the warmth of the hand,
The promise of shelter, the wealth of the land.

Her light is the lantern that leads us back home,
Through meadows and marshes where wild creatures roam.
The fox halts his prowl in the glow of her gaze,
The owl turns his head with his eyes all ablaze.

She moves through the orchards where shadows are deep,
Her footsteps as soft as the dreamings of sleep.
The roots feel her presence, the branches bend low,
Her touch is the stillness before the first snow.

The children all gather with baskets of leaves,
Their laughter as crisp as the cool autumn eves.
They chase her faint glow as it flickers and flies,
Like fireflies drifting through infinite skies.

But she is no captive, no prize to be caught.
She lingers, she listens, she leaves without thought.
For no hand can claim her, no jar hold her light —
The Spirit of Harvest belongs to the night.

Yet every October, she calls us once more,
When the world feels so fleeting, the days sharp and sore.
The harvest is over, the earth breathes her sigh,
But gratitude lingers like stars in the sky.

For every red apple, each sheaf bound in twine,
Is part of a circle, a thread of design.
What fell from the earth will return there again,
From seedling to sprout, from the harvest to when.

So we gather in circles by bonfire’s glow,
We offer our thanks for the gifts that we sow.
The bread on the table, the warmth in our chest —
All carried by hands that deserve to find rest.

Above, she still watches, her glow round and full,
The Spirit of Harvest, the night's amber jewel.
No temple can hold her, no hymn claim her grace,
But she lives in the hearth, in each sun-weathered face.

So rise, rise, oh lantern of gold,
Crowned in the twilight where stories are told.
You call to the weary, the wanderer, the wild —
The mother of bounty, the moon ever mild.

- Khushi Kaul