A Moment

 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.