Sickles and Scythes

Beneath a thin moon

Forest things gather to drink

All their gourds empty


White winter moonlight

Lies in ribbons on the road

Cutting through the night


The fields are empty

Winter has come to visit

None go to greet it


Icy air fills lungs

I think of hot sweet chestnuts

And – oh! – burn my mouth


A scarecrow stands guard

The frozen fields hold nothing

Just sickles and scythes




This entry was published on December 20, 2012 at 1:07 PM. It’s filed under Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

write the fox

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