Harvest

Harvest

A farmer is the quest of farm

Where the farm searches

The seeds

For

The resolution of doom lingering

Every December:

Twelve months ahead

For and before the seed

To yield the seed,

To return to the womb.

February fixes the cycles with twenty-eight.

So good to be engaged

Before March closes the whole.

“April is the cruelest month”,

May marries the seeds of summer night’s dream.

June rains the blessings,

August lights the yellow wisdom, mistaken for gold.

The farm meditates for

Thirty days in September.

The farmer strides to catch the allowance of earth and sky,

“Farm is mine, Arm is mine, Seed is mine, so is harvest”,

The farmer chanted, to no sprout.

“Farmer is yours, so are the seed and harvest”

The farmer prayed to the coldness,

In the guise

Of leaving “Farm is mine”.

Thus the harvest crawls,

Under the fence,

Late in the cruelest month;

Time is

Waiting for the resolutions,

To celebrate the lies

Of the Harvest.

Aswathi.M.P.