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A Harvest Moon  
   

The moon resembles more 
    A sickle than a scythe,
It's swung the world o'er
    To reap the stars of sky...
   
But its harvest comes to nought,
    In gathering bits of light;
None by blade are caught
    In its swath across the night...

Somehow, in the sky so wide,
     None are cut, nary a twinkle,
But there they stay to abide,
     And the heavens dark, they sprinkle...
                    
                                        
John Riedell

 
 

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                                                            Site Last Updated on 12/01/13