The Scythe's Whisper
The moon slides silent on the dew-swept field,
My hand upon the curved and cunning blade,
Its weight both foreign and familiar here—
The long crescent, gentle as a cradle’s arc,
Yet sharp as memory’s unforgiving edge.
I move through wheat as if I part my hair,
Each golden stalk a strand beneath my palm.
The swish and sigh, a rhythm in my hips,
A knowledge passed from wrist to wrist, unseen,
A legacy in muscle, bone, and skin.
They say the scythe is instrument of end,
A harbinger of silence, fall, and dusk—
Yet in my fingers, it becomes a song,
A spindle, spinning daylight into bread,
A lullaby for seeds that sleep below.
The field is wide, horizon swept with hope;
The blade and I, together, carve our path.
I am both steward, sentinel, and stone,
A presence in the morning’s quiet hush,
Reaping, not as death, but as a mother would—
Gatherer of what’s grown and what will be.
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