Bitter-Sweet Harvest

Writ in the mellow ribbons of starches,
When the sugars form their own mouths;
The ripeness pins it's watering sweetness,
In the apex of borrowed light under pith.

What can be said of man, thus ripened
On invisible vine, or feet like root on roof
Of earth's brow, sucking at crystal seams
Some reckoning within has made 'prime'?

When n' if my own fruited crush of shine,
In golden thresh reached it's natural purity,
Is mute conversation for drought or locust,
Chewing rind n' stem in destined alacrity.

Sorrily my 'prime' is no longer of concern,
Irrelevant on any given drift unto sundown;
It may have come n' gone, stolen unnoticed,
While leaning into a turn, or looking to earn,
 . . . . . .
Fair return of satisfaction on this green fuse,
Who's yearly saps sweetened your garden;
Flowered your bouquet-Eden, row by row,
Now to wither in wilted shame n' no pardon.

TBollinger