In the time of the Harvest
specters of things unsewn
are as cruel as the empty basket
and it is no consolation
that the locusts went hungry too

Sure, the birds of the air are fed,
but a rib eye seems to require
a bit more foresight than
seeds and crumbs
or the bread we cannot
live on alone

Not knowing what you’ve got
til it’s gone and realizing what
you could have had, right after it’s
too late to get it are the heads
and tails of regret

If a little time and effort
are the keys to transforming
your fields of stone
into those waves of grain
it is indeed foolish to wait
for the earth to plow itself.


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