Harvest of Hours

The dusk drips gold on furrowed ground,

I walk where laughter used to bloom;

the ghosts of seasons gather ‘round,

their murmurs rise, then fade too soon,

and hum beneath the harvest’s sound.

A wind like memory shakes the grain,

it sighs through years I cannot keep;

I taste the joy, I taste the pain,

and somewhere deep, the roots still weep

for all that fell like autumn rain.

I bind my moments into sheaves—

the wilted dreams, the prayers half-grown;

each heartache threshes, each hope grieves,

yet mercy finds what I’ve outgrown

and breathes through every leaf that leaves.

The field lies bare, yet softly sings,

its quiet hums with what endures—

the hymn that loss and loving brings,

a song that sanctifies the sours

and crowns the dust with holy things.