Harvest Time

HARVEST TIME There are no roots to see, not with our eyes, that stretch from earth, umbilically below; not even to the sun, to realize, but there must be a chord we do not know; Are we not on a fruit, still ripening? Perhaps we are the nectar from the tree, Awaiting harvest time's great siphoning When all are ripened; it's our time to be. And we will be plucked from the path we're on Around the sun, into a vat and pressed; The vintage of Apopolictic Dawn, Revealing vast unknowns, we've never guessed. Then all our stuff of non-sense; all we thought, Ferments into the past, already bought. © Ron Wilson Arbuthnot aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet