A being to bloom in old fertile fields,
and bear those fruits born from toil
and oh the fruits this forgotten place yields
and yielded from this ageless, lost soil.
*
These gentle flowers to see the sun’s light, 
And caressed in autumn’s soft rain.
To grow all the more into such a sight
to break through life’s arduous strain.
*
History hath brought us poets so divine, 
their words as wind chimes or birdsong be, 
And as the glistening sea doth often shine
Some words of beauty I should like to see.
*
For though I often find myself lacking,
Falling much too short of the Kings of old;
Here stands winter’s harvest, stacking
ripe fruits with stories to be told.

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