My basket beaming of harvests from sun scorned labor I sit in the shade thinking of Spring’s soft caresses, of Spring’s potential, complete. My timepiece, the dried and splintered wheat fields swaying to the iambic emphasis of Summer lost. Teeth sink into the last ripened apple and I savor this year’s last whift of honeysuckle and clover. As the winter’s seed is sown I sit in the shade nodding at life’s labors unfolding.