He plowed with affectioned misery with my heifer
While planting the slumbering winter wheat,
Doing what was proper and righteous in my eye.
With his second going forth as a crop rotator
He subdued the summer’s furnace of afflictions
With minimal sprinkling from my attentive feet.
Year three, without my hand he smote bended reeds
With a renouncing scythe of full-blossomed skills.
As he neared the limit of what I could teach
I should have invited him to feast at my table.
Instead, when his own flesh and blood was furrowed
And he asked me to apply the wealth in my silo,
I wilted, asking plastics to provide her latticework.
As a windless preceptor, I was a storehouse of nothing.