Glean

In the hush of morning fields, we wander low,
Where amber stalks bow beneath a soft, grey sky,
Our baskets empty, hearts a‑yearning glow—
To glean the bounty that the earth lets lie.

Each fallen grain a whispered promise, bright,
A reminder that the humble reap what’s sown,
With careful hands we gather fleeting light,
Turning scraps of hope into a feast’s own tone.

So let us glean not just the wheat, but grace,
In every quiet corner, find the trace
Of kindness scattered, waiting to be traced—
A harvest rich in love, in time, in place.