Fulfillment

Come,

Autumn breeze,

stroke the golden stalks of wheat

where my soul,

as a bucket, empty,

on its side,

lies.

Reach down;

here, to me, on the ground.

Rock my soul, the

hollow pail,

from side to side.

In my prime,

way back in my Spring,

the shiny brim of my bucket bustled;

its swollen brow emptied its

kernels to the

earth.

Now, rusty,

my brow sits silent,

its granary bare.

He who fills us up and

stands us all erect – each a different

shape and size – moves on.

To posterity.

Pity me? No!

Pity the unfortunate

vessel, the container that erodes,

upright, blessed

with seed, bulging with grain,

that never planted

a thing; but

sits buried in the

weeds.