Testo The Harvest

Eleven Weeks Ago, You went into the yard.

Beneath an Inch of snow,

The ground was frozen hard.

You worked to dig a hole,
lit only by the glow from hope you buried deep, to see what it would grow.



Oh, you haven't told anyone.

Beneath that vernal sun, you sit patiently.

Here comes the spring.

Oh, what will it bring?

What will it be?