Essence of Forever
by Odin Roark

With every day
we gather a bit,
we plant a bit.

Time’s waning irrigation
renders dry many tributaries
from high in the ethos-sphere.

Some of purity’s blossoms
meander down rivulets of calm,
while certain regrets foment slowly,
droning echoes from canyon to canyon.

We ask…

What of the times
when orange blossoms fill the air,
when alpine’s flowered reverence
sways its season beside trickling brooks.

And lest we forget our concrete avenues,
where stanchions of glass and steel
hold mysteries aloft from lessons ignored,
East side to West side.

We always remember those rough and tumble planting seasons,
when sunlight seems clouded,
food for flesh momentarily accompanies starvation for thought.

Yet with temperance of satiation,
we arrive at harvest time,
and suddenly new sprouting appears,
the cycling conundrum of time blinks open again,
the Bard’s handiwork resounds,

“to be or not to be”

For such breath-held moments,
we remember darkness of sleep,
radiance of sunrise,
perpetual nature of dreams.

And suddenly we understand…

Harvest knows it is one with the seed,
perpetuating everyone’s last days
as that of forever.