Agony of Autumn's Greet
|It is the time to gather seed,
as winds blow brisk, from Northwest.
A garden dies beneath the weeds,
as now, my tears, replace my sweat.
I pray that it will be enough
a sorrow's flood upon the soil,
to overflow from salt-rimmed cup,
and loose this clay, 'pon which, I toil.
An agony of Autumn's greet-
a gaze upon a gray cloud sky
still, I welcome sweet reprieve,
while plucking flowers that have died.
The ground is wet with my regret.
Next spring, I'll plant the best one yet.