Harvest (poem)

Harvest

Light over the clouds
shines bright into the heart,
eyes warm with heat
after the night’s frost.

The fields, they glow wheat
for harvest in October,
their golden bodies dance
to the sun’s open arms—
apples blush on the ground,
on cheeks cold
with the first signs of snow.

And I wonder
what makes the rising sun
stay bright in the heart through
the winter’s long touch.

— The Finicky Cynic

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