Here is a poem about people who cannot leave what they know.
It was written quite quickly a little while ago and I am not sure it is ready yet.
Here is Bill Evans from 1965.
Until next time.
It was written quite quickly a little while ago and I am not sure it is ready yet.
He has never left his garden,
or
walked beyond its boundary
to
gaze with open eyed wonder
at
what can thrive outside.
It
is is true he tends his fields,
diligently
kneels in the soil,
skin
cut by sharp leaves
of
plants he barely knows beyond
the
names they give themselves.
Each
holds its own promise:
protection,
profit, status.
Everything
comes at a cost,
in
blood, in sweat, in time,
so
he has never left his garden.
There
could be so much more.
I'd be interested to know what you make of it.Here is Bill Evans from 1965.
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