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Pinch
It was on the midnight hour,
When he felt the pulse of power,
Of a day that had imbued,
Him with the wealth of harvest moon,
In a splendid flourish of produce rich,
That he had sown and reaped by pitch,
Of his skills and merits, earned him due,
To efforts made all season through,
And like the lotus, had grown enriched.
But as he reviewed the day's events,
Laid his hand upon a letter not sent,
And looking at the uncompleted task,
Did draw a breath and of himself ask,
"That even of a day as grand as this,
'Still be an undertaking that I did miss,
Should I make haste to place it on its path,
Yet the tenacity to produce has lost its grasp?"
But instead drifted off 'til the next days's kiss.
