Consciousness cares.
The light
dissolves
behind new order.
Ravaged and stately
become
empty vessels
waiting of the vintner
to approve his vines.
Old wood.
Old world.
Iron of an age.
Patina grace.
The heavens open
spilling tears
of a trillion stars upon us.
Be awake.
Forsake the dream.
Even in the daylight
our open eyes can stumble.
Stagger tongue
and wisdom complexion.
We need to rise,
as the stalk in the field.
There is resurrection
only in the heart
as the mind dies
like a burning ember.
Forgive
the rust upon the scythe,
the bearing that groans,
straining
to do the work
of the day.
These can be replaced,
but the breath
that gives life
to the crop
and the hands alike,
is cosmic in scope,
and atomic in intent.
Behold.
The day awaits.
No sleep
shall reap what grows
for our abundance.
HG – 2022
