Morning.
Dawn kindles
the forthcoming fire
and strews rosy beams.
They burn in the dewdrops—
in the morning dress
of snuggling
petal goblets,
preparing to bloom.
The earth resounds
with the chirping of birds,
bounds bursting with song.
The white fog
rises higher,
to be split by the Sun,
unveiling to all eyes
her glittering orb.
All around—
the quivering of expectation.
The mowers go to the field’s edge,
parting the grain
and dew laden
drooping
ears of rye.
Only a quiet rustling
is heard
and on some steel blades
purple dawn plays.
They go.
There are many.
But one breaks away.
He is the first to raise the scythe
and it will be the first
swing of summer.
Life is a current in him
and his being exudes
life.
The celebration of ripe nature
fills him with waves
of creative energy
and ignites his song.
He will not repeat
what has been sung.
He will sing a new one.
In that song he will merge
with the whole,
the song like a symbol
of the invincible power
of man.
The row stops. On their scythes
they lean and wait.
They wait for the sun.
Then the wave of dawn parted,
and the fiery sea
girded the firmament,
the raised scythe glinted,
and sliced into the green thicket
and a new song poured out:
Run little row,
to the end of the field!
If you don’t run,
I will drive you.
