Harvest
 
 

       The wild white heat of the sun's son thuds in 
       the blood, shimmers in the heart of the mind: 
       But the taste of the bud's fruition is 
       bitter on tongue tip, like hope tasted too
       young. These meagre fruits were all there are. All. 
       What should such harvest mean? Oh friend, the gloss 
       of leaves, all plump and rich and perfect like 
       our speech, our soul's exchange, presages death. 
       The drying, and the turning down, foretells 
       the fall. Long is the journey in the winter dark. 
               I hold the first of harvest 
               in my single palm: I toll the fading sun. 
               For this frail family in the rough, 
               there may not be 'enough'. 
 
(C) Copyright 1999
ALYS
All Rights Reserved
The Nexus Collection
ALYS

Blake's Law

COLUMBINE TRYPTICH
Ode
Queen of the May
Lullaby for the Dead
Communion
Dishonesty
Eye
The Fiddle

POEMS FOR FORT WORTH
Fort's Worth
For Cassandra
Soughing Song: Fort Worth

Futility
The Gate
Harvest
Pause
Punjab 60
Song
Stones
Ulster
Wanted: two in one


CONTENTS