The Seed Sower Knows (Poem)

Only The Seed Sower knows
Which root the seed grows
All ails the seed shows
Which brood the seed tolls

The Tiller of the fields
Breaks sweat with no skills
Makes bets with no yields
Banks debt with wrong deals

A Bird in Your Hand (Poem)

A bird in your hand is worth three in a tree
The burden of man is an imperial decree

Cast down upon the lowly
The tree withers with blight

The lowly see the tree as hope
But the avid see all as trite

One form of trite gives way to another
But the new form of trite leads all forms to blunder

Blunder across the land leaves no room trees
And a treeless isolation breeds new formed disease

Disease of the mind
Disease of the heart

Disease that will multiply
Til death do us part

The only real cure for this plague is the bird
The absence of trees means that life has deterred