49 Schoolbells harvested us like wheat

49                       

Schoolbells harvested us like wheat,

wild in the windrow lanes.  Blythe

laughter was blowing us, tasseled and sweet

in the morning sun.  Snick of the scythe!

 

Ricked in this same field of years,

together we sat, all eyes and ears.

The rooms gave our faces a single life,

mowed in time by a single knife.