Youth seeks age too soon
With incondign haste
Those who would force the harvest
Find only meagre pickings
The sun hammers the garden, beating it into submission. The trees are laden and the brambles heavy with berries. It is early summer, yet autumnal fruits have already ripened, solitary harbingers of the harvest to come. Too few, they feed only the birds, their seeds fall unnoticed into parched and unreceptive earth, a season ahead of their time.
My skin shuns the arid heat, seeking out shadows and dreaming of mist. The long, hot summers of childhood are a myth created by memory; bright petals of pleasure, crowning the past with daisy chains. The solstice has passed, the days shorten imperceptibly towards winter. The fruits of today will be forgotten, yet their seeds hold the rebirth of spring.
I am part of that cycle. Did I bloom too soon or too late? Will such seeds as I sow add to the harvest? It matters not. I am happy to feed the birds.