In a microcosm of the macrocosm, this poem is the fruits of my labor, and like a mirror reflecting upon itself, it is thus named...
The Fruits Of My Labor
5.23.2017
I’ve tossed the stones
Rolling in the stream
I’ve kissed the moss
Flowing down the river
But the ocean
How it waves to me…
And the water
Oh, how it will deliver
I ask not what
I have not earned
Only milk
Not butter
Before it’s churned
And the match was lit
Before it burned
Oh the fruits
The fruits of my labor
I ask not what
I have not earned
And the fruits
Oh, how they will deliver
I’ve stirred the dust
Of the lowest desert
Stolen fresh pine air
From the higher ground
But to reach the sky
It is my dream
The fringe of the atmosphere
Is where I’m bound
And the air
Oh, how it will deliver
I ask not what
I have not earned
The path to knowledge
Not discovered
But learned
A voice unspoken
Is never heard
Oh the fruits
The fruits of my labor
I ask not what
I have not earned
And the fruits
Oh, how they will deliver
Actions may
Speak louder than words
But for the writer
His action is in words
What’s a writer to do
What’s a writer to do
Writes all about action
But it’s all just words to you
The writer
Still writes
Writes on with the notion
That tossed stones
And kissed mosses
Will lead him
To the ocean
The writer
Writes on
Words of action lead where
Written wings
They take flight
On the stirring of dust
And the stolen pine air
I ask not what
I have not earned
Oh the fruits
The fruits of my labor
I ask not what
I have not earned
And the fruits
Oh, how I hope they deliver