Field of Life

A stretching field of golden grass
Golden, like a bell of brass
Shrubs and bushes here and there
Scattered as if were no care
The bushes are of different heights
Different colors, different mights
Some are strong are some are weak
Some are proud and some are meek
Winds and storms do often come
And break a branch of fragile ones
And sometimes in the moonlight black
Or maybe day is seen a sack
Within the hands of tall a man
Who comes and gathers what he can
He brings them to the place he lives
A very cautious look he gives
For if the bush is small and thin
The fireplace is where it’s in
But if the wood is fine and thick
He’ll make a sturdy walking stick
Or sometimes if the mood is good
He’ll take the little piece of wood
And carve a gorgeous thing to place
Upon his shelf and by his vase
He keeps this field with bursting pride
He watches out as days go by
To see that only he will trim
To make the bushes grow for him
Oh, there are some who do stand tall
And hardly need a trim at all
But some are stray and tangled round
And laying flat along the ground
For these he gives a sigh of grief
He knows that it has been a thief
The bushes can ignore the tools
Used by these unruly fools
They think it’s easier to lay
And not their springing roots obey
Forever here they lay to rest
He knows they could have been the best