Autumn of Life
Take the scythe, it's morning
and the lost, September clouds hang low.
We'll gather corn for breakfast
as the sun burns through the fog.
Crows cry unseen from the mist;
a bob-white answers from the field of uncut grass.
Crack open an ear of corn
and all of nature hears it.
Sparrows hush. The crows return to perch.
There are golden threads in my hands
and golden strands on the edge of heaven.
The cloud is lifting.
A gust of cold air blows over.
Here the angels come
to their own harvest.
- Originally published as "Scythe" in Frederick Arts
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