Am I too late to till the land,
to fill the furrows with life-giving grain,
tubers to store to be eaten in Winter,
gourds to nourish us through to Spring,
in Summer I will allow the long beans to dry,
take time in Autumn to cry over what used to be,
hand pump my well without electricity,
rue the abundance of wood too wet to kindle,
save for old papers' headlines decrying the outrage, 
before the brightest light came, ere the outage,
outside but more so within, empty vessels, 
hollowed - nay hallowed - vassals, 
ships set sail, round-trip to nowhere

Am I too late to take my own life
into my own hands?

cc: Michael 2022

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