It's the reaping


It's the reaping of the corn
I fear,
The billowing hills of snow,
no more.
The taste, the touch
All gone
In an inkling of the day.

No strings can comfort
The eye,
No humble oboe reed
Can feed
The need I must decline,
The birds
That sink in icy water.




Poetry by Bob
Read 511 times
Written on 2011-02-06 at 00:08

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text