Fruit of the Harvest

- - dash -, twirly loop-de-loop, - -, hover, flutter, whim of floral breezes. Charting course, tiny bubble-gum-pink index finger traces the flippant travel of the pretty fly.

Go! Faster! aah to the left! An epic catch so nearly ascertained. Beware of hazards, retrieve the ball, return to the start, adjust the flight path, go again! Tireless pursuit of the perfect pitch.

Formations ladies (and gentleman, thank you very much)! Neat rows and perky bows lead the crowds in trained display. Hold up signs, shout what we say. Earth-bound aerobatics on full display.

Three different routes to three different ends, all in the same field. Collect every moment: fruit of the harvest. Keep keen and head low, don’t dare blink too slow.

Two a.m. tip-toes and mighty bundled-blanket bed climbs; moon-lit traverses to sunrises and kisses.

Twelve a.m. Sunday steps approaching: up, up, up the climb to lofted dreams curled with feline companion.

Twelve p.m. texts sent at the turn-point of days, secrets and dreams thumb-tapped through the night by eager teens.

Gather and take inventory: twists/sudden turns, the skips, the steady lines. Package with care for needed times.

Lullabies from mommy cast out scary things. Voices of her ancestors join her as she sings.

“Consider mistakes happy accidents instead,” eyes half-suspect, “hey, that’s what Grandpa said.”

I won’t always be here but the field is richly sewn for you to prosper, believe in yourself and all you have to offer. Do diligence and gather, sustain on the fruit you grow. Share your harvest with those in need and graciously reep what you sew.