The Scythe

Out of the sky swept

A thing unheard-of

By the growing wheat:

A scythe.

Now the wheat bleeds,

Too deep for ears of man,

Its hunger for the future’s

Decapitated.

No longer living reaching,

For the sky, or looking

Down through golden eyes,

Its bodies lay.

There is a dream,

Of high summer:

That wheat will one day,

Dance in the wind.

__________

Copyright 2023 Jeff Merk