Frets the farmer on the plow,
unmoved, the field foregoes.
Vane, through harvests that don't last,
grounded, are those who came to pass.
Ancestors wore down by forgotten toils
as ashes, begotten embers,
but lo -
the field, remembers?
If that's so - I'm not mistaken,
nothing truly goes forsaken.
Wildflowers and brushwood,
I'll be the sweat of their brows.
About the Creator
M.
Half-time writer, all time joker. M. Maponi specializes in speculative fiction, and speculates on the best way to get his shit together.
Author of "Reality and Contagion" and "Consultancy Blues"
Comments (1)
Nice one! This one deserves some more attention.