The Harvest

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I would make a life

Of harvesting

The shimmering moments.

Arising in the dew-drenched

Light of morning

I would weave a net

Of spider webs

To snare the notes

Of larksong and daybreak.

I would sweep the mist

Of leftover starlight

Into the tiny chalices

Of buttercups. 

And toast the rosy dawn.

I would trace the flow

Of daylight as it

Paints the afternoon,  

All golden and all new, 

Dancing down the hillside

Beside the flirtatious 

Invitation of the streams,

And the shadows of the forest.

I would stretch, arms akimbo

Eyes tight, absorbing 

The toasty warmth

Of sunlight and of life,

Motionless on the carpet

Of a fresh mown field.

There I would listen 

With my beating heart

To the unimaginable 

Cacophony of existence.

Wind sifting through leaves

Of every shade of green,

Flowers answering 

With the rest of the rainbow.

Racing a gentle rain

To the shelter of a bower

I would curl, safe beneath

The droplets drowsy drumming

Presaging evening song

That awaits behind the

Purple haze of twilight
And the rising of the moon.

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