Harvest

Hushed under sky's mantle,
beasts, birds, golden stalks,
meadows and hills waiting,
ripe for harvest, Creation calls.

Blowing and sifting the wheat from the chaff,
forged in Truth's furnace, the sickle sways,
the weed burns, the wheat remains.

Fields are awaiting, the laborers rise,
from sunset to First Moon
the grain of ingathering,
harvest time ends soon.

Spirit's wind sweeping throughout the land,
stirring the sleeping, "join-in before noon",
fields are awaken, sickle and blade sway,
harvest  time ends today.