The Harvest

Wither’ng wheat upon the field,
And corn so dry it cannot yield,
The drought it swallows food so dear,
For every creature far and near.


Yet these fair days with coolest breeze,
The north wind blows; it brings such ease,
To romp within the park with sass,
On somber, sullen golden grass.


The trees they hold our future now,
They’ve been around and show us how,
To prosper in these dire times,
They spread their roots in drier climes.


The message is, “There’s no despair!”,
Go deeper for the water’s there,
It’s time to settle in and grow,
To grasp each one you love and know.


For soon the harvest moon will come,
Why worry where our food comes from,
The stalk, the kernel, water, seed,
It's Heaven bears our every need.


Peter Lowell Paulson
August 14, 2012