Harvest Time

What once was green and good is all but gone; No cheering warmth accompanies the dawn; The gift of youth has quickly turned to rot, And distant memories have been forgot So long this fertile field has been my home, But now my weathered stalk is fully grown, And I must pass beneath the looming blade To suffer soon a silent, scattered grave Made weak from want of light and water cold, My shriveled body painted brown and gold, I pray the scythe will take my labored breath, And reap the sweetness of my coming death In nature I have played my simple part, So on this final journey I’ll depart, And take my place among the fallen droves, That came and grew so many years ago.