The greatest harvest has been tucked in, buried. Some would say marooned, gathering toward ambition. Is it a weak purpose, or a somehow lodging of a brief changing world?
The greatest harvest of my life is sun-plucked and drained. Not great. Not pert. It is still enfolded, still orbit-spun, still defeating its surface.
We travel at so many speeds. We are harvesting every possible moment. I am a field of knowings; a possible sky. We compete with sound and heaven. So much time passes through our points. So much time. It is hard to know where our feet actually land.
The fast-forwards burnish a haunting beat; a deep thrust of heart and breath. The tragic nevers we try to restructure. This startling, that wedge of change, consider it. Consider the flooding over as the most exquisite tremor you feel today. The world outside; this is all the greatest.