10-27-2023, 07:34 AM
Labours
I grasp my sickle, as our Labours begin. It's serrated edge,
a practical cure for the overgrown grass. The August sun
peers down from its fantastical heaven, inquiring—
the oldest man in the sky with his roundel monocle.
And I, in my impractical skirt, bend ever lower
into a diabolical sweat, curse the fickle wind
as it blows the grasses out of my hands,
upward into it's magical bluster—
it seals away one more bowl of grain
from our table, to replace it in winter
with one more icicle on our roof.
Labours roundel
I grasp my sickle, as our Labours begin. It's serrated edge,
a practical cure for the overgrown grass. The August sun
peers down from its fantastical heaven, inquiring—
the oldest man in the sky with his roundel monocle.
And I, in my impractical skirt, bend ever lower
into a diabolical sweat, curse the fickle wind
as it blows the grasses out of my hands,
upward into it's magical bluster—
it seals away one more bowl of grain
from our table, to replace it in winter
with one more icicle on our roof.
Labours roundel