Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few; therefore pray earnestly to the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”
What does it mean to be ripe?
Is it just a smell, simply a taste?
Is it only a chemical completion,
genetics waiting to be fed on pure sun dripped sugar?
Glance around you now—
the birdfeeder swaying in the breeze,
the litter of dry sticks scattered around,
cedar and millet, mixing—
is this, too, a harvest?
Perhaps it is an incense blended for no one
Who lays out thin over the land,
that everywhere place of sky and earth meeting
in compassionate regard.