He sits with a purpose,
Stays without strain,
Concise as a butterfly,
A star self guided.
Perspires soil,
but his heart might bring rain,
Trickling down,
Streaming along clefts.
He practices the main performance,
Won’t strive for more than this,
Repetition his prayer,
Renders sweet.
And I do believe,
His life might be a river,
an intricately woven quilt,
Sewn-in careful vigilance,
Of each and every infant stitch.
And his mind might be open
A country sown in neat rows,
Awaiting the next harvest,
Determined,
Under combed skies.
Brother is sure to reap from the good earth and,
Onto the heavens.
When his produce stands in orderly heaps,
Realised in the fields of labor,
Of love.