Cooking Soup amid the Haystacks - a poem from the old Spaz Improv...

As the harvest progresses
the time for soups takes over
as the flying geese move south
flying by night to avoid the guns
of the hunters seeking food
or just a release from stress
with the blast at some thought.
Sandwiches fall to the side
as the haystacks are made
for the traditional hayrides
and the soup is cooked up
with care or negligence
in pot or slow cookers everywhere
capturing the essence
of the season in their broth
filling the air with the smell
of what once was truly home.
-I cannot remember who tossed out that title as a prompt, I want to say theTimelessGypsy, but that may be wrong... all I know is its appropriate to the season, cooking amid the sheaves...