syn@uo-vax1.UUCP (syn) (12/26/84)
Hard Harvest
The round oaks
sweep each arc of air
and fill their frosted spheres
with light.
You claim the trees
are ugly bare
with fingers thick
and uncombed hair.
They foul the yard.
The winter of the soul is near
and litter all our squandered gold.
May mercy mark
where we were fair
before we made the harvest hard.