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 aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment