Harvest Poem by Steve Woodward

In my head it feels like a Monday – but it’s Spring
The week ahead is ripe with promise
For the picking – where it not for the toil in the fields
The burr of each passing hour
Such sweet fruits to be had. Be tasted.

I stand weary at the garden gate
How to say that I won’t be back?
There is work to be done for the harvest
To satisfy my greed for the bounty
Amongst the crops.

Do I set my seeds in pastures green -
Eaten at by crows?
Do I wipe the sweat from my heavy brow -
Or the tears of frustration from darkened eyes?
The heat from each moment beats down onto my back

Should I step then into the fray
To take my place amidst the elements?
Or turn back towards the house
The safety of prison walls
And watch as the harvest goes to waste.