A winter evening when the gray sky turns to slate and then to black
My old cat sleeps on a chair and his sleepiness in contagious.
The fire ebbs low and my bones and the logs crackle.
The moment is quiet and a time of pleasure.
My life is at the harvest and the crops are stored.
The harvest is in, and so am I.
What I grew from early on, pushing up through the soil every error, every lie I heard (or told)
Every false start, and every drought--
Every bad judgement, and every little pebble of wisdom earned
(Sometimes at great cost)—
Every loss and every gain--
Every love gained and lost--
Every walker across my stage--
Served to fertilize and strengthen was grew. It grew in pouring rain and hot sun.
The beauty of the dew on what I was growing took my breath away.
So was my life, and so it will be,
The harvest is in and what is stored will sustain me.
The harvest is in, and I feel the warmth of knowing that,
A quiet joy.
댓글