Bringing in the Sheaves

blackbird harvest

 

Sing a song of harvest,

A sheaf of golden rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds

Taking to the sky.

Sing a song of plenty,

Of food that’s gathered in;

Heralding the season

That stores so much within.

 

 

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Sing Yourself Brave

grapevineleaf

Six months into your sentence,

and still you hang on.

Grapes are long gone.

Lazy summer days are just a

snapshot in a drawer.

Long cold nights

stretch interminably,

yet here you are,

refusing to let go.

What belies your brittle,

what glues seam to stem?

Do you have

Counsel

with power to pardon?

Do you have

Representation

to plead your case?

Do you have

eyes

to see past judgement,

secret stored wine to

sing yourself brave?

Sing a Song of Winter

Winter Sparrow

Sing a song of winter,

a sparrow with a chill;

Sing about the way he flits

while filling up his bill.

Croon for him a song of old,

to sing the cold away;

Harmonize with frost and ice,

and winsome-warm his day.