Seeds of the Harvest
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
meanders 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 begetting starvation for thought.

Yet with temperance of satiation,
we arrive at harvest time.

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.

Instantaneously…

Harvest is one with the seed,
finding the paradox of birth and aging.