The rhythm of the scythe plume
In the summer heat.
The step-by, step-by cadence
Of the old man’s steady feet.
The zip-saw of the whet-stone
Against the metal blade.
The wizened hands like leather
That never knew the shade.
And I am just a child again
On a tumbled stoop;
Watching ancient haying,
Marveling at the crop
Of tumbled swathes of timothy
Falling layer on even layer
To the mercy of the scythe.
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