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

.

.

.

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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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