Between the Waters

Harvest Time

By: EarlB, 12:40 AM GMT on May 26, 2013

Time's effect is seen
As Spring warms,
As the wheat heads swell.

It's the story we all know
Because we are the wheat, too,
Steadily filling toward maturity.

We've swelled too
As our days warmed:
Our teachers, our suns.

Now it's time
To sow the seeds of our wisdom,
To plant for the next season.

Soon enough,
It'll be time
For the harvest.

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Updated: 12:41 AM GMT on May 26, 2013


Leters from Home (15) Winter Wheat

By: EarlB, 11:55 AM GMT on May 02, 2013

Dear Zoe.

Here we go again, Springtime is in full swing here, everything is
bursting with green. The peach trees have shed their pink blossoms
and replaced them with leaves, the apples and pears are currently
covered with both green leaves and pink-white blossoms, for some,
the blossoms don't need a solo, starring role.

But the most impressive life-filled rebirth is that of the 28 acres of
winter wheat surrounding the house. I love the solitude that full-sized
corn gives and the solid green mat of a field full of soybeans, but looking
out on the wheat is like looking onto an ocean, complete with the ripple
motion of waves; the deer and wild turkeys like seabirds swimming and the
foxes and other smaller animals like the unseen, unknown creatures below
the surface.

What a beautiful sight.

Our national anthem speaks of "amber waves" but my favorite waves are
those of the young ocean, not of the old, so Spring is when I take to the sea!

You are old enough now to have seen that Springtime beginnings are just
the start of Autumn ends. This week I heard of two friends who have come
to the end of their seasons, and that reminded me that it was this time of year
when your mother left us as well. But, so is life: beginnings, endings and
sometimes a confusion of both. But for now, the Spring of this year is the
green, green wheat and the waves of wind and time running through it.

All my love,

Uncle Roy

(Her strands of auburn hair
As if blowing in the wind.

Her slender white fingers
As if to hold onto the ripples.

Her hazel-colored eyes
Tearless now
Will see no more.

Her hair will never flow in the wind,
Her fingers will never again meet mine,
Her eyes will see no more, no more.)

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Updated: 12:57 PM GMT on May 11, 2013


The views of the author are his/her own and do not necessarily represent the position of The Weather Company or its parent, IBM.

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