08/01/2026
Lammas
As the fields begin to bow,
remember the hands that harvested before you.
The ones stained with earth,
weathered by sun,
their backs bent beneath the weight of another season.
What was buried has risen.
What was tended now gives itself freely.
What was never meant to grow
has withered back into the soil.
So it has always been.
There is dirt beneath your nails.
Thorns that have drawn your blood.
The sting of the sun on your skin.
Smoke caught in your hair.
Bread torn apart by calloused hands.
The deep ache of a body
that has earned its rest.
Harvest has never belonged to ease.
It belongs to showing up.
To planting.
To waiting.
To weathering.
To trusting the seasons,
even when the fields seem still.
So scatter oats for the birds.
Leave a crust beneath an old tree.
Pour a little cider back into the earth.
Whisper your thanks—
not because the land asks for payment,
but because gratitude is a language
without borders,
spoken by every living thing.
May your table never be empty.
May your hearth always burn warm.
And as the Wheel turns once more,
may you remember
that nothing the earth gives
comes without patience,
and nothing we leave behind
is ever truly lost.
-RowanOak🌾
