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Cycles (A Sestina)

A tribute to an exceptional wordsmith and person.


Cycles (A Sestina)

        by musichal
    © R. Hal Watson

When Old Man Winter finally takes up his oaken cane and, limping, leaves,
then showered Spring arrives to bless the furrowed plots this season to be cultured.
Time repeats its old familiar cycle of rebirth in sounds of music
wafting through the natural terrain, a symphony so sweetly soothing.
Farmers stand to arch their backs, then stoop once more, each one to work his garden.
Nature's Plan responds to spheres and orbs so far beyond, and this world turning.

This restoration thus rejuvenates our orchestra's desire of cultured
tones heard from their violin concertos floating in the night in soothing
melody beneath the hallowed stars and constellations slowly turning.
Yet man remains encumbered by his work and death when cursed in Eden's Garden.
Play then the instruments in sad refrain, my friend, lamenting thus in music
days of dire regret when we return to dust for burial beneath the leaves.

If perchance on some great day I walk through heaven's gate, will it be soothing?
Will I find myself upon a highway golden in a verdant garden?
Opening the Book of Life to find my name inscribed upon its leaves?
Angelic beings may perhaps sing hallelujah as their kingdom music
then pervades the drifting clouds beyond a silent Earth no longer turning.
Some believe, some call it myth and think disciples simply are not cultured.

As Spring departs and showers fade the sun beats heavily upon the garden.
Nature then conspires to feed the world by growing its own style of music
in conjunction with the planted vegetation farms have grown and cultured.
Fruit erupts for harvesting from soil the workers recently were turning.
One tired young farmer staring in the ebbing daylight turns and slowly leaves
his ripened fields and trudges homeward for the pillow he finds soothing.

Harvest-time is done and Season changes once again its chosen music.
Autumn frost and shivered night arrive to mark this time with thoughts now turning
forth to fairs and football, and fires upon a hearth - the glow of embers soothing.
Rusty colors of the fall are windblown yellows, reds and browning leaves.
A time to sow, a time to reap, a time to rest the ground they cultured;
farmers know these changing times so well, as one must know who seeks to garden.

The Iceman cometh then to freeze the ground and blow his snowstorms southward turning.
Barren landscapes meet the eye with woods of twisted limbs devoid of leaves,
and gently sloping swells of snow are all that now reveal the holy garden.
No sign of all the work and sweat now mark the site where vegetables were cultured.
Humans sit by fires and nap or read the books they find completely soothing,
silence in the night now found in homes across this land becomes their music.

Families once farmed these lands from sea to shining sea, each working its own cultured garden.
And finding in this work a measured grace to harmonize with Nature's soothing music,
paced in time and rhythm by the planet, sun and moon, and by the forest's ever-turning leaves. 

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