In the early days of the spring, March's forges ignite,

covering the land in the warmth of the sun's eternal light.

 

The heat warms an earthen oven, as ancient and lush as the seas,

teeming with worms and grasses, swarming with thousands of bees.

 

The oven is piled with seeds, gifts from the harvests of yore,

seeds that will fashion an army, crafted from golden ore.

 

April brings crystalline hammers, falling like stars from the sky,

flowing into streams and the rivers, the pond and lakes filled high.

 

The crucible of spring turns the ore to gold, tempered by ruthless rain.

Weeks of labor are rewarded, with hefty bounties of grain.

 

May arrives bringing gifts of the sweetest of flowers and fruit,

celebrating the arrival of the treasure that has now taken root.

 

The wealth of spring reaches perfection, providing it's boons to all,

from countless hardworking farmers, to animals large and small.

 

At the height of the gardener's glory, begins the garden's doom.

The harvest so earnestly wrought, must perish so the next can find room. 

 

The reapers take to the field, theirs scythes swinging every which way,

an army forged by nature's might, is felled in a single day.

 

 

 Harvest, a poem in celebration of Cetlic Farmers. Submitted by Jordaan King