harvest
Posted on Tuesday, September 15, 2009 in Uncategorized
am the crop grabbed by the reaper’s hand
swirling wind sways my grains against the land;
fare-thee-well john, the scarecrow he seems so sad
trotting the marshes, jack the reaper felt so glad.
we’ll swing, sway free, till the sickle shears us down
fall in tufts, packed in sacks we’re sold in town.
some threshed and tortured, lost their veil in the flail
some sown back, “hello john”, lived to tell the tale.
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