We Till the Soil
The plow and furrow often end,
In crooked twisted furrowed bends.
We cannot clear all roots afield,
The past disrupts the plow we wield.
We till the soil of memories.
Where grow the seeds of daily deeds?
Autumn our wheat and our fantasies.
Our kismet thrives among the weeds.
We farm in a given time slot.
Time is the substance of our lot.
And happenstance decides the whir.
It seems for me, and so for her.
We share it in equal portions.
Even our devotions' the same.
Yet each soul weighs separate potions.
Each differs in their kismet frame
We are souls accepting embrace,
In the forming of new life grace.