Life’s Harvest

 
With every day
we gather a bit,
we plant a bit.
 
Time’s waning irrigation
renders dry many tributaries,
while 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 sometimes 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
gleaned 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,
beckoning the bard’s handiwork to resound its:
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.