Days to Harvest

Where bramble emotion doth grow,
It shall dwell betwixt my lone.
Whose sedated strife sprouted with woe 
Forsook the rich of thy loam.
 
Dreary, the bracken doth reach, 
Tempted to trim mirrored seeds.
Shall I forage the moor for sweet petal speech,
Or wish winter upon springing needs?

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