Last Days of Forever

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 from lessons’

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 of 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