His Farmland Cultivation Poem by Bryan Taplits

Too late I flew to make a nest
Too late to fashion my 'when'
The corner around which I now peek:
Is a cul de-sac. An end.
The parting of my curtain-veils
Which I see through wear-worn eyes,
Is my view, as I look through the curtain,
In the slit I call my life-
And I wonder, 'What! ' and 'Why? '
No longer can my youth chirp or squeak-
It now ages in caws and shy peeps-
Too somnolent, yes, . No longer young, I guess
It's too late for me to sow now-
So now
it's time to see what I've reaped.