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

Time’s waning irrigation
renders dry many tributaries.

From high in the ethos-sphere
some of purity’s regeneration
meanders down rivulets of calm
while certain regrets clamor endless echoes
from mind’s canyon to canyon.

Some may ask…

What of the times
when fragrance fills the air,
when Alpine’s flower reverence
dances its season beside trickling brooks?

And lest we forget our concrete avenues
where stanchions of glass and steel
hold mysteries aloft with lessons’
East side to West side,
seeking out willing listeners.

We always remember those rough and tumble planting seasons of growing up,
when sunlight seems clouded
and food for flesh
momentarily begets starvation of 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 of question
ushers out the darkness of sleep,
begetting the radiance of sunrise,
the waking from Nature’s perpetual dreams,
opening eyes to harvest from those of seed.