Morning Seedlings

We are all drifters: We cease not to roam. We ponder the passing moments Like pearls, And sometimes they fly by Like shrapnel. Take me to my hovel, My home on that lonesome hill Where I eat carrots and potatoes From a garden of my morning-- The morning, the ever turning Morning, stretching into day. The hoe, the rake, The shoveling back which wears With the years like grinding stone. Children frolic nearby While summer warms souls Dug out with labor. Plant the seed and reason: Wait and reason, Sweat and wipe the brow. The reward lies beneath the soil If only to emerge in June And ripen later on As does the lifespan of a man. Sustenance grows there With undaunted vigor. Plant me on that hillside When I die, That I might greet strangers Unawares.