My Three Sonnets Plus Two (The Sower) Poem by Austyn Chimbuoyim

The seeds in the Sower’s hand,
With time makes a reaper of him.
Better still the fallowed land,
And the barn may not contain.

I tell of an age-long Farmer,
The first to till the red soil.
A garden fair He made, by the pool,
The pool coolly behind the mansion.
He made, by the garden’s deep waters,
A nursery, nursed amidst toils.
Several nothings made-up His tools.

Ready were the seed-plants to move,
Among them were found look-alike weeds.
From whence they’ve entered the groove?

Together they’ll grow, and the difference told,
But only by the fruits they bear.

Nature, at the sower’s behest, lets drop,
Both tears from the cheeks,
And sweat from the brow.
At times there’s a smiley warmth:
These aid the sower’s plants to grow.

But who’s this sower, the age-long Farmer?
I too tell of an age-long reaper,
The first to use a sickle.
A golden barn lay just next to His Palace,
That He made east of a furnace,
Where-in shall rest the weeds fickle.

But in the barn golden, will be,
The seeds gathered by the Reaper’s hands.

That ends the Sower tale and story.
He toiled to till, train and plant,
With sight on a certain glory,
He solitarily reaps, ‘yond time.

Those who soweth in tearful weeping,
Sing will they in joyful reaping.
For the seeds in the Sower’s hand,
Makes a joyful burden, the sheaves He’d bear.

Like the first Sower, we try to toil
For only ours could we harvest.
Yet His stewards we are in the ‘senseless turmoil’
And like Woodworth’s reaper, we’ll invest:
Our voice in song melodious,
Cutting and binding, in task arduous.
But only when the fruit’s ripe for the picking.