Palm to plough, plough to shed.

The harvest not yet lost
hung,
suspended by time, preserved in frost
the grain remained the same
tucked in soil, in wait for rain.

The seasons changed and moved
the seedlings, at last, came through
and leafy periscopes of green
stretched up from those small seeds.

Another day, in that field we’ll roam
we’ll spin, and laugh, and leap
from the tears that planted seeds
which grew the joy that now, we reap.

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