We clear the land

Removing the rocks and stumps

After having cut down the trees

and freeing the ground of weeds

With our strength,  and that of the steel plow

We break the hard soil

Preparing the way,  to sow our seeds

We care for our crops,  that will come and go

This miracle of life,  and its repetitive flow

Which yields the fruits that fulfill our needs

One identical plant, after the next, and next, and next.

with their many simularties, I can be perplexed

And the fact that,  upon ones death and decomposition

The next blossom feeds 

So,  I am the nutrient and the firm soil.

To where my offsprings roots will naturally lead

And they will bear the same fruit 

And to this fact,  they must concede

They may bear a fruit sweeter than mine

If I yield, and give  them "room to grow"

Maybe, just maybe, they can succeed.

 

By JD. Bardo