As the seeds that sacrifice themselves
to change and so to grow,
we give ourselves unto the Mother
trusting we will sow:
our roots, the thoughts that keep us mindful;
stalks, the paths we roam;
leaves and fruits, the faith we nurture;
seeds, our coming home.
Bless the harvest, and the reaping
at this time of year;
give to us your strength of purpose,
let our words ring clear.
Bless us with your endless bounty
of and from the earth;
and as we are also seedlings
teach us of our worth.
Each seed and leaf and fruit and flower
dies so we may live;
so when it is our time for harvest,
let us likewise give:
our time, the measure of the seasons;
our minds, the gifts we share;
our hearts, the love we give each other;
souls, the journey there.
Bless the harvest, and the reaping;
thanks we give to thee.
Take from us this sense of longing;
let us simply be.
Bless us through embracing union
with and for the earth,
for we are the future’s seeds
awaiting its rebirth.
Bless the fruits of this first harvest,
freely shared and grown;
and may we, in growing onward,
give back of our own.
01 AUG 2001
I don’t know how the original pilgrims did it, but I am on a pilgrimage of my own. In our house, this is how one pagan gives thanks. This is a poem I wrote for First Harvest last year, and I like to think of it at every Harvest celebration.
