Scythe

As the tall wheat gathers
So high and golden
Each individual gleams brightly
Individual little strands are woven

Tightly packed together in the field
They sway when the wind passes by
Be it by the East or the West
It comes and goes as it pleases

The blade slides deftly through
Each stalk of wheat it touches falls
With each fall, another inch of ground
Is cleared for the sunlight to touch

Advancing as it does through the field
As if cutting the Earth's golden hair
The scythe slashes through
A golden grain again

When comes the day's end
Not one stalk of wheat remains
Until that time in the year to come
When the wheat shall rise again.