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Harvest Time
I gather up the wheat
of silvery words from the page, the silver stalks of sunbaked wheat—
and polish the vine with my tears
and redeem the old sky that is still shining on us and I gather up
the fruit of the morning and I leave the seeds
in their shadow homes to grow forsaken.
I am gathering my leaves about my tree self and I will grow
my own roots
and I will grow my own roots.
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