The harvest comes…

He thought of her,
Across a vast expanse,
As autumn turned to winter
On the plain

Her thoughts were jumbled,
Tumbled, in a dance —
To pull the truth from out of
All her pain

The harvest comes: it comes
When time is ripe,
When that which needs to grow
Has reached its goal

In quiet fields, beyond
The noise and hype,
The harvest comes, awakening
The soul

Author: Owen Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

4 thoughts on “The harvest comes…”

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