Transplanting the Seed

Ron Koppelberger

Transplanting The Seed

The innocence of grain and twinkling vestures of passion filled the father of an ambiguous age and constructed ancestries. He agreed with the mistress of measure and the hum of slumbering portent. The bounty of wealth and chance, poverty inseparable and yet divided, stated in afterlife boast, in lessons bargained and rules bemoaned. He felt constricted and yet he saw the pristine savannahs of open skies.
The mistress was the seed and the seed was the sensation, primal and shared by boarders of sylvan egress and mountain vista. Shorn sands in the distance, creeping formerly fertile and again. He was a mortal being except for the mark, natural, supernatural, endless and evanescent.
The mark defined his birthright and the constant mind of interchange; gypsy circles and howling wolves…..a life curious. He bore the mark in blessing unalterable in rosy calm ascent. The birthmark on the back of his neck defined a furtive weave with the advance of the explanation, the fraternal order of legend and deliberate ladders to mystery. He whispered, “Love in natural man a mistress in saffron and creation, the garden…….the garden.” She was a good mistress and the crescent on his neck defined the moment. Clear, concise disposed to battle, and seasons of unavoidable forge the better of his dream.
He moved in subtle dominion, by the fray, the southeastern fray and the pleasure of magic. Fur clawed resonance and grace, he grumbled and inside he reasoned the likeness, the mirror image of the forge a recollection in gentle exhibitions of gild. The seesaw love of sweet savor and arrival. The arrival of blessings in maelstrom , blessings in fray, his fray, the lay of wolves and environs of ethereal intoxication. He forestalled the passion of his need and drove the will of fountain cascades. Cool, sated slaked by virgin baptism and pure proclivity to the spirit of god.
He began and in the destiny of wheat, the seed, pure chaste and by the measure of wolves and men.