Yield

As full and as bright as her bumper crops,  
she rose, like suitors by an arbor rung,  
and higher than notes by falsetto sung...  
in right ascension... right past the treetops  
to sail through her meridian space  
over the stratojet and shooting star  
or any aviation objet d'art  
at a sonic or supersonic pace.  
 
Only wind chimes and crickets orchestrate  
to score her silent orbit far above  
our fair medium of earshot love  
where daybreak birdsong is the morning fate  
of the Harvest moon and all of her beams...  
plowing the whole night...  
                                      
                                 our field of dreams!