The Poet Soldier Pt. 4

Fall's feast of the harvest was about to begin. Each and every year, good years and bad years, after the reaping of the grain, gathering of the grapes for fermentation, and sorting of the lambs and calves for husbandry and slaughter, the land's bounty was celebrated and gratitude was given to God for all that was too often taken for granted. This year's reaping was grim. This year's wine was left wanting. This year's sorting was meager. This year's bounty was less than bountiful. Yet tradition dictated a feast of giving thanks. God's gift had not failed this land; this land had failed God's gift. Too much ingratitude had ingratiated the hearts of those lacking Grace.

The poet soldier was well aware of the gloom that had gathered in Autumn's shorter days. Longer nights would be spent ahead with empty stomachs sleeping fitfully with worries of financial finalities. Too much had been taken. Too much had been stolen. Too much had been expected. Too much had been granted. Too much had been too much taken for granted. And now the axe was falling on the heads of the least culpable and most capable of the people of this land. For their stomachs would be the empty vessels that would float on the bitter waters flowing from damned lakes bursting soon when empty hope could no longer hold. Regulation and oversight had dissipated and dissapeared under the unwatchful, cloudy cateractic eyes of capitalistic conservatism. This would no longer do. Longer days and even longer nights would again test the faith of the fated faithful.

Selections had already begun to direct the head in the direction the body must move. From a rival camp, and a once close alliance, the wife of a former leader was chosen to represent the poet and the land in all the lands of all the world. She would carry the messages, the hopes and dreams and wishes of the masses and minorities that peopled the land of the poet soldier. A new team of new names and new faces, each well respected of their own accord would face the challenges of righting the finances for the people that had been wronged. Above them all, but for the poet soldier and God, would be the man of final arbitration of the laws that had made this land known to all others as the shining city on the hill. The clean light of the law might shine brilliantly again.

His wife and daughters held close this day, the poet soldier considered other men that might not have the means to celebrate the harvest in such a manner as he. For times today were trying to many. Too many had no wife, no daughter, no son, no home, no employ, no hope, nothing to celebrate but hardship and despair. Fervidly he vowed to give them reason and means to celebrate a more meaningful driven life. None of this dream for his people would come to fruition today. Nor would it likely come tomorrow. With enough tomorrows ahead his dream might one day come as another man's dream had come to him. For this opportunity, he was lovingly grateful. Sweet smells of baking bread and roasting game wafted from the kitchen in peaceful grace. Fall's feast of the harvest was about to begin.