To harvest’s promise, promises I make
From soul-starved sanctum, wakened numb from sleep
And facing darkness, seeming unawake,
I then define the covenant I keep.

The scythe’s pure fire cuts quick through all I hold
Most dear. And, less that cut prove fatal to
My deepest cries for love, I must be bold
And trust in time to prove my heart to you.

Oh time, lend light to arcing passion’s fire
And focus love’s desired kaleidic glare.
Love flays the temp’ramental pitch: the cry’r
Denies the fleering voice of sickle’s snare.

Beyond the fields of fickle life’s tight clutch
My hand bends to the harvest of your touch.