Tonight a spring rain will kiss the pansies corolla,
frogs will sing love songs under the lunacy
of a blood stone moon and, the world
will not know the better.
Somewhere in some distant day the joy
of rain and song have been left behind,
hidden by fake existence that imitates life.
A storm is coming, it beats against the morrows
of Mother Natures morning sickness, her belly ripe,
verdant as a pods bursting with seeds,
the offering of untold time waiting, pulsing
with humankind birth, blood, death, beginnings.
A confession to the cornucopia of her thighs,
buttocks sealed with a barrette of the season.
Young girls and young men desire
without knowing how to tend the field,
to nurture the soil and grow the harvest of the future.
Yet, she returns and gives up her fruit,
yields to the plow with the reins
held gently over the shoulder.
The casual tug of the leather rails
against the promise and need.
of the generations.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour