I’ve sown words on fertile ground,
Watered them with sweat and tears,
Fertilized them with dead dreams,
And they grew, flowered and thrived.

A rich harvest have I now,
Bushels full of dead, pressed leaves,
Bound in colorful covers,
That others may thumb at will.

They bring rewards and some joy,
Will survive me, if not long,
And help others still to learn,
And I hope help improve lives.

Wish though I’d sown fewer words,
Reaped fewer bushels of leaves,
Chosen to sow other seeds,
That would have bloomed into souls.

In a heartbeat I’d exchange,
Bushels of pretty dead leaves,
For a daughter of my own,
To have loved through all my years.

Choices cannot be undone,
Roads not taken beckon still,
At least I know when I’m gone,
Dead leaves will never cry tears.