There’s no such place, there’s no such way,
Time duly invested, means nothing they say.
A meadow, a brook, a tree with a view,
A life spent in limbo, a box just won’t do.
If ever a song could reach out to a crowd.
If ever a storm sent the sun tumbling down.
The garden will grow and so will the thoughts.
But the weeds must be cleared for the seeds to make crops.
There’s beauty in growth, be it peppers or boys,
Or tiny girl toddlers with dolls as their toys.
To see they grow right is backbreaking toil,
But for the sake of the world, put the trowel in the soil.
© 2016
Andrew Spradling 