This morning's piercing shaft is cruel.
A grim grey blanket
Hovers over sleep-sodden fields.

The harvest has begun.

Spectres spiral in weary wisps,
Gorged full with the dawn’s ravaging.

A tiny figure
Frail and tearful
Clutches her thorny stem.

Her dove-white dress
Is ripped and stained,
And on her bare toes

The petals drop.

06/20/2010

Posted on 06/20/2010
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