With gentle care, my drunken head

Is upwards tilted, facing Sun

I glimpse pale gold in summer’s field

To trace, already, winter’s dread

As hues of autumn’s failing now revealed

➰

Too soon! Unready heart implores!

But she, intent and moistened scent

Upon the harvest’s fulsome bliss

Inscribes my name on deeper lands-

Baptising wordsmith with her kiss

➰

This is my chosen task–her ask

To face the winds, the rain and snow

To see the bare yet feel the beat

Of life withdrawn to hidden mask

As thickened leather wraps my feet

➰

To dig through darker months the toil

Our hands return to deeper soil

Which, haunted by four faces’ song

Five-finds a singer always whole

And tells her truth; to write the wrong

➰