Fruit ripe from the harvest, did not come this year.
The farmer did his best, but only reaped a tear.
His fields were all flooded, the rain wouldn’t stop.
The land like a riverbed, it could yield no crop.
...
As the grass does wither, and soon fades away,
So the frail life here, in its limited day.
As the wind blows hither, and then goes its way,
So man in his sphere, visits a limited day.
...
Sunlight
Fruit ripe from the harvest, did not come this year.
The farmer did his best, but only reaped a tear.
His fields were all flooded, the rain wouldn’t stop.
The land like a riverbed, it could yield no crop.
He struggled through winter, with hardly a scrap.
Spring’s rain brought fear that his land was a trap.
He’d willed it to his son,
but could he still fight?
Tribulation had him undone, till the morning’s sunlight.
R. C. Jette is Rita Jette. See her books at: amazon.com/author/rcjette