Harvest Poem by John Libertus

When I think of all the things that were mine,
things that were stolen, or left behind,
I'm not sure who gained,
but I know who lost

yet they were only things,
toys in a river of time -

I only truly get what I can keep -
I only truly have what I can give -


He, who, with sunlight, laughs lessons in the shadows,
hints with the beckoning sky:
beyond plays at being is,
the whole masquerades as part;
so, as the Farmer, stingy with the working hour,
He makes the bales so big, so heavy,
that clearing the fields,
stacking his storerooms high with mercies,
fills us, his harvest hands, with power
to be the lovers of the dream,
the scientists of the soul,

to reap with images, identities:


the law says, 'til death do you part',
but the heart asks forever,
and so an aging man, in an empty, shambling house,
electric child, laughing, plays with horrors:

the shadows are places, things like my last breath;
sword of the Now, honed to an edge by agony,
divides the darkness with a sudden gasp:


I almost can feel you, almost see you here with me -
wife of my youth, my joy, my sorrow


so close