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