Golden Potato

The golden potato beamed at him in the sun When he had almost stopped his quest for this one The others in the pile smeared his hand with red earth But it as if for his eyes lay hidden apart. Make me your choice do pick me Lift me from this dump set me free I deserve no mash no steaming boil No cut into pieces to be fried in oil. Get me quick for I come from a land Where soil grows rich in golden sand They have a song for each seed sown That when they sing all grief is outgrown. And the harvest when they’re spread in the sun All hands embrace all hearts welcome In each sapling that sprouts from the soil Is seen the miracle of god’s earthly toil. He picked the precious up from the red dirt Needing it dearly for his backyard desert Where he would have it on this summer sown Till the rain shoots it up all grief is outgrown.