Playground of the Scythe

  A summer scene of flowers and of
sun,
  A light caressing breeze, a flowing
stream,
  A grassy unworn path to tread
upon:
  All building blocks of sleeping Winter's
Dream;
  I melt into this scene with hush
designed
  In vain persuasion of the forest
folk
  To pay a great big heap like me no
mind
  And let me lay untouched by poison
oak
  Had legs a snake to stand and stride
upon
  This place might Eden be called still
today
  Alas! His fall transformed these hills
anon
  Into mere gilded guilty holiday.
 
Memento of the life He takes to give
  This pretty little
playground of the scythe!