|
Red clay on a shovel,
Dig deep not level,
Only with rain,
Able to make gain,
Packed that way,
>From wheat field's day,
Until the hillside,
Had no pride.
One wonders how,
Bread from grains bow,
Nuitrion provided free
With such poverty,
Ground was fed.
'Til it was dead
Then sold to me.
Now I've turned it.
Mulch added a bit,
Finally appears a weed,
"How'd jah do?"
"Say, you are true,
Think Ill cultivate you. |
