In the Harvesting

The seasons of the year are
The sowing  and the
Growing  and the dying of
Our lives; we empty and
Fi]l like jars, the scales are
Always  balancing and
Tilting steady - we simply
Are too close to it to see
Unless we put our hand on
Heart and back away  - accept
The eyes' dilemma that takes in
All souls of red and green
As  well as casted shadows.
We  ourselves are emblem of
Our days  - golden as
Wheatsheaves
Stacked in the sun.

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