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Posts Tagged ‘scythe’

oosvh1O

Since life is but a mist that burns away,
A blossom that delights a day, then goes.
And since the barn’s ablaze and we are hay,
The condor e’er awaits because it knows.

We’re helpless ‘fore the ever watching eyes;
Each is exposed as in the noonday sun
One’s shadow clings no matter how he tries –
Appointment in Samarra – none can run.

Death perches near to pluck our bodies bare,
Bereft of life as idols are of gods.
The sword of Damocles hangs by a hair;
Grim Reaper, with his scythe, fore’er marauds.

Death’s always hanging over each of us;
Its touch before is slight, then ponderous.

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photo by Elvis Santana at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oosvh1O/california+condor+2

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

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………….The Tuft Of Flowers

I went to turn the grass once after one

Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

 

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen

Before I came to view the leveled scene.

 

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;

I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

 

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,

And I must be, as he had been – alone.

 

“As all must be,” I said within my heart,

“Whether they work together or apart.”

 

But as I said it, swift there passed me by

On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly.

 

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night

Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

 

And once I marked his flight go round and round,

As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

 

And then he flew as far as eye can see,

And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

 

I thought of questions that have no reply,

And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

 

But he turned first, and led my eye to look

At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

 

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared

Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

 

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,

By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

 

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,

But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

 

The butterfly and I had lit upon,

Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

 

That made me hear the wakening birds around,

And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

 

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;

So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

 

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,

And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

 

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech

With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

 

“Men work together,” I told him from the heart,

“Whether they work together or apart.”

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