Harvest

Bring to me December,
Bring to me the cold,
I will be the ember,
Bite it back with teeth of gold.
An orange and rusty glow,
I will burn the snow,
Let the waters flow,
Down unto the plateau.
Then come September,
When the wind whispers relief,
When the ground bursts forth its wheat,
What is lost I will remember,
Hidden among the bundles reaped,
Silent, not yet alseep,
I shall slink among the harvest,
And upon the scarred ground I shall weep.

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