“Harvest”

I’ve spent my lifetime unknowingly growing words, like each worthy sentence I’ve ever heard has been planted inside me. It’s strange to think about words that have moved me, some sewn into a wind that travels at such a pace I can’t help but be lifted.

The words have been falling in raindrops, feeding the others like a tag team, thrusting hands to one another and gripping.

Like a ladder, the words have found strength in each other, and build themselves high like towers.

My eyes bear witness to a murmuration of starling, stirring a meandering feeling that words don’t only GROW here.

They fly.

I squint at the sunlight, draping the golden wheat with a fresh blanket.

I hear a bell, as if the seasons have finished shifting, and the height of the crops can no longer continue growing. The soil is near splitting, omitting a content feeling so strong it could calm a tempest.

So I take out my sickle, and I make the first cut into the golden field before me.

Like a reflection on the memories that truly mean something, puddles formed by raindrops fill the spots ordinary words don’t occupy.

To reap the reward of the crop we grow, we must first begin the harvest.