Harvest's Clouded Sunlight

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 bang the drum 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 with lessons,

evolves knowledge from East side to West side.

We always remember those rough and tumble planting seasons

when sunlight seems clouded,

and food for flesh

momentarily begets 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…

Harvest is one with the seed,

death’s fully ripened grist for Life’s mill

signals the next beginning.