THE OLD MAN’S HARVEST

The man was old

The seeds were few

The land no more fertile

Than sand

The weather unkind

The river far

The water jug half empty

Carefully husbanding

The seed

The old man worked

Alone under the sun

Trickling

A light sprinkling

Onto the hard planted seed

Till it put forth

A single stalk

He nourished

The root, the stalk,

The flower, the fruit.

Patiently exercising

Upon the single

Desiccated stalk

The ancient rhythm

Of the harvests of his youth

Till his work done

And he slept

Under a red moon

Then stumbling from a hate

That orphaned,

The children knelt,

Dry-eyed from famine,

Beside the sleeping man

Woke him

With their awed whispering.

Ate what he gave them,

Then walked away

Into the angry sunrise.

Their silhouettes comforted

The old man, alone,

More than any harvest

More than riches

More than sleep

Without hunger

More than rain

The man was old

The seeds were few

The land no more fertile

Than sand

Yet the flowering

And the harvest

From his hand

Had blessed the day

Fed the night

Made rich the old man

Before his final sleep

With not one seed

Left within

His open hand.