Like as a farmer scat’ring seeds in Spring,

a noble Lady spread her kind words there,

and unexpectedly she seemed to bring

new life to ground so recently laid bare.

 

And if that ground seems lavishly well sown,

it is no fault of hers, but of her son.

She tarried but to gather in her own

and seeds, by chance, fell as she watched him run.

 

Or, was that seed yet dropped there by her choice

in hope that it may grow? And do I see

in her attentions and hear in her voice

what comes from her, or comes from my fancy?

 

Fancy or no, I’ll tend this seedling well.

What harvest comes, still only time will tell.

 

(Nov 20, 1994)