Little do I think about
The tiny hopes that daily sprout
Leafy bundles, full of promise
Tended dearly, work that’s honest.
‘Tis not the soulful sustenance
That daunts my daily consciousness
The sewing is but half the battle
For of my troubles, do poorly straddle
‘Tis not in growing seeds of hope
That I fear the worker’s yoke
Would that I could bring great harvest
Easily to others farthest.
The saddest of my tales all
Is the feast I’ll surely call
To table filled to overflowing
With seated place, my eyes lone knowing.