On the path
I crossed a farmhand
fawning over stinkweed -
tears in his eyes,
sorely tending each plant.
"Sir," I approached,
"wouldn't roses ease your woe?"
Resignedly, he groaned -
"Oh no – this is a barren plot,
yet one ascribed to me to hoe -
the ground my dear Lord planted
for me, long, long ago."
Turning away,
he shuffled off
real, real slow
to help the sickly
garden grow.
But from a heavy pack,
strapped snugly to his back -
I saw un-sown seeds,
falling gently in tow -
and the weary faced farmer,
didn't even know.
Written May
15 2003
Sowing Seeds
