"Harvest Dance" - Dayna Patterson

From cloud cloth she cuts a fabric fine and tinseled,
edges soaked in wine and white middled. Needled
pine she pins to pattern, runs through with silver river
threaded line. When done, a full skirt she sets on
mountain mannequin till Michaelmas and the harvest
dance. Then watch her spin and spin across the sky.
Rivers flash like lightning. Her bare feet smashing
as she heel-toe-heel-toes it across a field of rye.
Father’s there stomp-clapping, keeping time.
They hook elbows, dancing “Drops of Brandy,” book it
right over the county line, His & Hers, yours & mine.


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