Gathering poetry from fading light
and seeds from meadow flowers,
cutting down swathes,
curved edges of the scythes
sweeping and all the grasses falling.
When I was soil
the seeds were in my eyes,
lying down in the dreaming
as the world around me died
and the moon circled her pale steed.
Now I walk between
the barren fields
and meadow flowers
carrying hope in a handful of bees
and a curved blade to reap the wilted hours.