In the fields of life, a harvest <br />sometimes comes far out of season, <br />when we thought the earth was old <br />and could see no earthly reason <br />to rise for work at the break of dawn, <br />and put our muscles to the test. <br />With winter here and autumn gone, <br />it just seems best to rest, to rest. <br />But under winter fields so cold, <br />wait the dormant seeds of seasons <br />unborn, and so the heart does hold <br />hope that heals all bitter lesions. <br />In the fields of life, a harvest. <br /> <br />Life is a gift that must be given back <br />and joy should arise from its possession. <br />It's too damned short, and that's a fact. <br />Hard to accept, this earthly procession <br />to final darkness is a journey done, <br />circle completed, work of art sublime, <br />a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won. <br /> <br />Death is no fearsome mystery. <br />He is well known to thee and me. <br />He had no secrets he can keep <br />to trouble any good man's sleep. <br /> <br />Turn not thy face from Death away. <br />Care not he takes our breath away. <br />Fear him not, he's not thy master, <br />rushing at thee faster, faster. <br />Not thy master but servant to <br />the Maker of thee, what or Who <br />created Death, created thee <br />- and is the only mystery.<br /><br />Dean Koontz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hideaway-5/
