Presumption

Pardon, me, Mother,
I know I am asking too much.
You're tired. Worn out.
You have nourished us for months, and satisfied us
with all good things.
But I'm presuming now on your good graces.
Asking for more from your secret places.
The end of the summer has come.
I stroke you with my hoe.
Wound you with my spade.
And pray for a full fall harvest.