IndieSouth

Fresh earth, neatly tilled and furrowed for growth
At Spring’s eve, expectant of seeds unsown
To bear fruit of that which Shakespeare did quoth
And dear Sir Philip Sidney’s verse intone.
Yet the season was short for common yields
And the harvest relentlessly approach’d,
But I, divided among many fields,
Lost momentum as the reaping encroach’d.
My bushels were bare, and parch’d were my lands,
My scythe dull, the once rich soil now dry.
No purchase could roots find, as life demands,
And all hope of thy seeds to bloom did die.
Yet hope: my soil little life will len’
The bloodroses of thy judgmental pen.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 27th, 2007 at 11:00 am and is filed under Poetry, Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.