Worthless, crumpled little leaf— Cast off without a care; Set upon the listless wind, Carried here and there. You’re not but nature’s clutter To disgrace a pristine lawn; The only want we give you Is we want you good and gone! And the Lord within the Manor Sees you only as a chore; He’ll have to rake and bag you Which is irksome all the more.
The old man sat quietly, wrinkled and gray; Yet, alertly he watched the toddler play. Then catching my eye, he beckoned to me; And stooping, I asked what his need might be. He said, “Age brings wisdom; but there is a cost, Dreams get dimmer and wonder is lost; Yet there is a place not quite as it seems— Back in the land of my childhood dreams.