Dear Friends,
It seems to me…
There once was a little worm named Phil.
Dig all day in the dirt, and the clay, but never could get his fill.
On everything he would chew, then digesting it too, he ate anything he will.
Master where he roam, in his kingdom of loam, he summered in pure glacial till.
I knew a little bird named Zat, well Zat was actually a bat.
Flit here, then flit there, he always knew where he was at.
His pride shown right through, it was clearly true, and he lived the life of the phat.
Wintering with a frown, he hung upside down, became a smile when he was flipped like that.
The tulip lay dormant in it’s frozen cell of torment.
While spring start above, bright sun beams love, the ground warms to wear it’s first garment.
Green shoots into the sky, the sun pulling it nigh, now the tulip is no longer in confinement.
Grow fast as it may, there soon will be a day, it’s flower will become an adornment.
Working all night and all day, just toiling away, there was Steaver.
Stocking his pantry, repairing the pond’s gantry, there were none who worked hard as that beaver.
He knew that this fall, his gamble would pay all, if only he worked with enough fever.
His pond tripled in weeks, and without any leaks, he had no equal in felling nor as a weaver.
Four living things breathe, they rest and they eat, at once proving that they’re alive.
A larva, a bat, or a bulb… a beaver and everyone all, we are called to push and to strive.
Each ascendant in our season, no one knowing when or the reason, but we all have that heavenly drive.
To be who we are, without worrying ourselves ajar, and living while were alive.
Sincerely,
John Pepin
