Bitter Harvest

a poem in triplets

 

A Bitter Harvest

 

Oak logs become ash.

Ash logs do not turn to oak

Fires one way magic.

 

 

Apple logs provide

 ample heat and sweet perfume.

Stirring memories.

 

Before the fireplace

 old dog twitches in his sleep.

The wind howls outside.

 

I watch pictures form

 and change amidst the coals.

Scarlet black and gold.

 

The dancing flames die

White ash forms a coverlet

 which retains some heat.

 

I rise to my feet

It is past time to go bed.

 If reluctantly.

 

Perchance I shall dream

of happy days which are gone.

far beyond recall.

 

Opportunities

 which I missed through selfishness.

Which I now regret.

 

I must live alone.

None to bear me company.

My solitude

 

Is my just reward

I reap that which I have sown.

A bitter harvest.

 

20-Nov-06