Cycle Of The Scythe Poem by shimon weinroth

the blades of grasses
stems of grain,
are cut and bleeding,
pouring out aroma of green

filling the air
with the smell of chlorophyll
their song of moaning
stirs my being

with heady aroma
tickling and singing
their dirge
does not go un noticed

their life force and energy
gathered and sacked
proud and meaningful

spring is in the air
season of harvest
childhood and growth

next year
their cousins' sighs
will fill the fields
so full of life

and dance
with the winds
of their destiny