The Harvest

Metaphysically, we are the past:

Each one a seed of life in the future,

Trying to grow to the sun, good and pure,

Ascending from the earth to which we’re cast.

The reaper comes so slow, yet comes too fast,

Rooting us up from routines in manure,

Objectively asking: Are you a doer?

No weeds need apply: the first shall be last.

Then comes the Tester to see how we’ve done,

Yelling out accusations, on the stand,

Protesting that we’re rotten to the core.

Hearing him, the Father turns to His son:

On my authority give them the brand;

Name the Living Sound through them for evermore!

Sonnet III