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For some technical reason one cannot reblog Plato’s work from his site in the usual way. He has given me permission to site his complete work when I wish. Someone on his blog, Plato’s Groove, referred to this as a Harvest Poem. That is exactly right as I see/feel it. But not just of nature, of Plato’s life as a whole.

I hope you will take the time to stop by and listen to Plato read the poem on his blog. It brings so much more to the experience than just reading words on the page. He’s truly a Bard at heart.

* * * * *

autumn summer tree Plato

Hot, wet, sultry summer

Damp heat hangs heavy, thickening the air

Shallow moist labored breaths

Weighty footsteps, deliberate, tread one by one

No relief in sight

The longest day is done, passed

The dry time approaches, baking earth

Greens rule today but browns will break when the earth cracks

Followed by yellows orange and red

Upon awakening I sensed a slight shifting signaling

The beginning of the end of the summer season

Zenith reached and turns toward tomorrow

Which yet lies over the horizon, out of view

The march of days has begun toward the next

The fragrance of Fall will secret itself between the rise and setting of the sun

Cooler crisp air will fill the spaces abandoned by the heat

Finding its place and quietly holding it until the coming of the cold

The waning has begun, a slow silent leak

Expansion halted now recedes, contraction begun

Longing for the sharp cold to cut through the malaise

To energize me once again in that time between seasons

Where the death of summer births the winter

For now I will trudge step by step along my way

I will harvest the final fruit of this year’s effort

Thankful for the grace of its bounty and provision

Yet wishing for something new, more, other than what I have produced

It was new ground, hoarded seeds of Self reluctantly surrendered, sown into the dark unknown

Trepidation’s trembling all along that way but ultimately unheeded

And now there is a new garden growing, one that has never been before

Something original done by my hand that only exists because I prepared and planted it

Triumph of risk over failure’s fear, an odd idea, a dream made manifest in the flesh

To have done the thing is something but what was I expecting

I was just experimenting and exploring the unknown of me, seeing if I could

It’s clear I can but now what, for what, I don’t know

As the seasons of me turn over and over, round and round, I unfold in unexpected ways

There remains a vast expanse of unknowing, my doing and being somehow reflecting that mystery

Maybe there is no ultimate answer to it.  My being says do and my doing says just be

I do know that is it hot and wet and green and that I can

But right now it is hard to harvest hazy thoughts in this heat

And I contract slowly like the season knowing that another is even now on its way to me

The slow warm exhale of what has been empties me, making room for a cool crisp new life giving breath

So, now sustained by what remains I await, I trudge, I harvest and save the seeds for a new, new garden

Perhaps that is the way of things

After the doing is done there is only being

Buds break becoming blossoms then just soak in the sun for a season

Until they are spent, color fading falling back to the earth to become part of the new that is to come

Yes, surely that is the way of things

It is somewhere in summer boy.  Why would you expect it to be different than it is

Sometimes I don’t know about you.  You will be complaining about the cold soon enough

Be Groovy! :)