Sickle Poem by Chris Krummenacher

Sickle



Sickle of wind,
meeting the wheat.
Coming to cut me down.
Cut me down to size.

A river will run from my eyes.
Swift enough to sweep clean,
not deep enough to drown
the loss I'll come to realize.

Chris Krummenacher
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
poem poems cut loss river
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Poems By Chris Krummenacher
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