The Sweat of Our Brow

 

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

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