Sickle For Harvest

In our sickle for harvest,
your hair sustains my night's dream,
and I'd gleam a sparrow's notion,
of the seam from birth to flight,
when I've your tresses to bless,
to rest my dream-day eyes.

On our tottering trips home,
we'd speak silently to old wounds,
and there you'd see me briefly,
withering without rotting, and I'd have
the warmth of your next words,
eddying around me.