It's Harvest Time

Behind the reaper, glistening beneath the fading rays of light, crude elements of happenstance lie in its wake, passed over and awaiting those who glean the afterbirth. Yes, there is that querulous persistence of the poor, that stubborn cadre of the prescient, who will peer into our souls and find us bankrupt, mind and consciousness already unaware. It is a curious, stolid procession passing by--these ghosts on their ironic quest into tomorrow. No one may cheer them on; no one may find a voice to hold them back. There is no choice, for we must be content to find ourselves among the gleaners, though it is we who sang our welcome to the reapers-- we, who watched the harvest come, and hungered after it. And it was we who faced the disillusionment of barren fields with gleaming bits of paper bibelot to laugh and mock us as we ploughed them underneath. But fullness too, lurked there in silent modesty behind the plough. Patient gleaners know that down the long, slow hall of history there is a single echo: Truth is unchanging...paradox! There was triumph in the air, and no man was a slave to it. I deeply sighed and took a breath and opened up my eyes. And it was good. ~