We have gathered in on all sides
the bounty that we might.
A stock of goodwill
and products of summers gone by.

We made brave faces
for encouragement of the good work,
of healing that little corner 
of our planet.

But your haven now is not mine, or in mine.
For you cannot let go as much as you have, somethings,
hoarding options.
As if a true heart may go to morn market, but not sold till dead of night.

Leaving those behind that would give without end, they thought,
nor trade places, for the world, 
in the expanse of abundance, for you.

So I take my councel now,
my confirmation was overdue,
but eventually arrived, 
a sharp thorn of recognition.
In this change time, revelation.

That, If not wisdom, timely arrives.
Helps leaving that wishful thinking behind
under a waning Samhain moon, wide fields of stubble.
Time for me and my ancestors alone, still. 
There is my true heart's haven.