Is it now that my turn has come
to weigh in with my shoulders,
bend from the knees,
and lift my point to the sky?
Is it time to plow the fields,
sew the seeds,
and tenderly pluck
at the root of my thoughts?
In the mind of an afterthought
I wipe my brow in worry.
Have I planted much too late?
Will the frost hold off
while the autumn sun shines
on a harvest hoping not to spoil?
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