We lose everything, but we make harvest of the consequence it was to us.
--Jack Gilbert "Moreover"
When I read the poem mentioned above, I pulled one line out and thought, hey, I should write a Golden Shovel poem for this. You may or may not know or remember that a Golden Shovel poem is one where each word of a sentence for the end words in each line of a poem.
Today I read another Gilbert poem called "The Manger of Incidentals." I pulled out the golden lines and considered them. I realized there could be a connection between the two. So I wrote the Golden Shovel poem.
We are but a moment. We
love as if we will never lose
what we love, for everything
changes, transforms, but
we are oblivious, willfully blind. We
believe in forever. We make
plans, build things, and harvest
the return joyfully, ignoring the fact of
what may disappear, the
mourning, the grief, and consequence
of loving with a full heart. It
is not foolish, however, it was
the wise way, for this love survives, to
be a moment, a presence, to be everlasting us.
