Glad Reaping

So let us go a-maying, lasses!
Find our values in the fields.
Let us go a-merrying, like asses
we’ll assess the yield of grasses
and sweet wildflowers!
Let us go a-maying, lads!
All of us without dismay,
in disarray exulting glad
and reveling in powers fine,
to find ourselves sweet making hay
as summer sun beats shining skin
to brass and bronze, while shadows lay
their deepened plot to steal the day. Some
mother puts the kettle on. In stone and clay,
recumbent, caught, so flagrant and delicious
won, we’ve scattered lying all for naught.
In perfect pose and natural touch,
We all gleam cold and settled in.
The sun has made a monument.
These souls were so alive here once. 
These statues once had souls within.