Gleaning
B
Bill Cantrell
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Poetry is a garden grand
Yet, at times it seems the ground is cursed,
As the trolls are the weeds infesting this good earth
When the rains come,
They greedily try to drink every drip
When the blazing heat strikes,
They give no shade but hide in between the lines
The sowers are the grand poets,
Plowing the soil with their glorious pens
And their labor does no go in vain,
For without fail the gleaners eagerly come,
Gathering the produce with joyful eyes,
Ignoring the weeds
For some weeds are not even worth pulling
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş