Harvest

I again hold your picture

and wish for anything else

a passing stranger

to obscure the lens

or the merciful pardon of a magnified

misplaced, blurry thumb

or the quickly passing shadow

of some eclipsing moon

that signifies the revolving

annual secret

of your death day

to darken your face

anything

but the bright slice

of your smile

containing that effervescent hope

of the moment

of things to come

I can’t stomach it--

its hopeful, simple beauty

has become a flashing sickle

whose very sight

grows within me, every time

a small crop of hope

and in the same curving motion

cuts me down