And who, these
Harvesters,
And who, these
close-shorn fields,
Desolate in
short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff
in silence,
That wear the
heavy tracks,
That have endured
the harvest,
That yielded up
their dead,
That bristle
through the falling snow,
That whistle
wind-song low?
Don Bouchard
5 comments:
LOVE LOVE this. Hug B
A splendid poem and your picture captures the austerity of it, despite the beautiful light.
YOU are a wordsmith!!!
Linda
Linda: Not my words. This is part of a poem by Don Bouchard from Montana.
I love the lighting in that photo.
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