"Who is," I think, "To say which of Time's seeds will stay And what their harvests be?"
The spiteful word, The slamming door, The choice To sit or flee, To stop or have one more, To speak cautious words or bold, Harvests all must reap, And each in their own time Reveal the ends of germinations, The husbandries of choice, Fertilizations or starvations Through growing seasons Moments, Hours, Years, Centuries long; But always harvests bountiful or spare.
Frost's Way leads on to way; A word becomes a deed, Born restless from a thoughtful seed. A gesture bright with hope Might lead to revolutions Or end its journey on a rope.
A word of kindness, Aesop said, Could save a lion in a net; A mouse he'd spared Could not forget. Neither now Should we.