Homecoming, and my birthday, waking to the leaves, peaking, the fiery trees blazing at the river’s edge, lighting my heart afire with my dogs on this morning walk in the brisk air into the joy of being sixty in my blessed life. By midday, I have had long talks and visits with each of my children; phone calls, good wishes, every one of them pressed to close to my heart. Then, my best friend taking me, as always, after years and years, our birthday ritual - lunch and an activity of my choice, which is, of course, another hike, and we go to the Blue Hills and a long hike in the sunshine before tomorrow’s storm, so all the blaze of autumn leaves are shining before being blown away - and we have had this lovely day. Then, my husband home, a dinner to celebrate, and our birthday ritual, around the table, celebrating the birthday person by saying, in turn, what everyone most appreciates about me. What a harvest of gifts! I must find ways, every day, to give them all away with the richness of how they have come to me, for no good reason. I am thinking tonight, at bedtime, about my father, how full of love he was, and how much he always showered others with his deep love, his ability to see to the heart of a person and honor their unique gifts. I’m so grateful tonight, for both my parents, on my birthday.

A Song for Merry Harvest
Eliza Cook, 1818 - 1889
Bring forth the harp, and let us sweep its fullest, loudest string.
The bee below, the bird above, are teaching us to sing
A song for merry harvest; and the one who will not bear
His grateful part partakes a boon he ill deserves to share.
The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notes;
The laughter of the gleaner’s child, the heart’s own music floats.
Up! up! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives
Should welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives.

The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine,
And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine;
Who prizes more the foaming ale may gaze upon the plain,
And feast his eye with yellow hops and sheets of bearded grain;
The kindly one whose bosom aches to see a dog unfed
May bend the knee in thanks to see the ample promised bread.
Awake, then, all! ’tis Nature’s call, and every voice that lives
Shall welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives.
This poem appeared in Melaia and Other Poems (Charles Tilt, 1840). It is in the public domain.