THE SOWER
Sixty seasons I have sowed, man and boy,
and I tell you, Matthew, that a seed
can not grow in the heart. No, one may
as well throw it away or feed
the chickens with it. For a fact, love
is something that only the devil
understands. I'd rather put my trust
in stones and reap a quick crop, for ill
or good. That way, you have no roots and
get what you can in a few short suns.
Or take cactus plants, at least a man
sees the thorns and expects to be stuck,
unless he's a fool—some choke on wool.
As for good ground, Matthew, that's just luck;
I've seen other fellows' orchards full,
year after year, where no one's lifted
a hand or a hoe except to pull
the ripe fruits down. Some men are gifted.