Saccharine Scythe, thank you for pruning me;
savagely setting the snakes out to sun,
shaking the fragrant shadows out to run,
sifting out those weeds that were grooming me;
salvaged, now, the sight of the setting sun,
a sight the stagnant had since overrun.
A murder no longer circling me;
all things buried properly, where they should
be, nothing here taking shelter that should
not be, no scavengers above, swarming;
where the overbearing overgrowth would
be, nothing here taking shelter that could
stop me; no barriers now, to growing.
The river that slithers through the slanting,
scouring and scarring barren, clay burnt hills;
the wind that barrels through with shrieking shrill,
humming locusts foreboding, and chanting,
the winter that returns for chilling thrill;
none of this here, strange; none of this here will
stop me from thriving in Scythe's nursery.