In early spring
When warmth has yet to arrive
The farmers begin their labor in the fields
a scent permeates the air
The sweat of the worked soil
*
And then in fall
As warmth has begun its departure
The farmers again toil in their fields
And that aroma returns to the senses
*
Tonight beneath an argent harvest moon
I am taken by the thought of mirror days
The reflection of April in October
And I contemplate time
*
If today is like that day
Perhaps there are only 182 days
And what we perceive of the remaining
Is nothing more than echo
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