Little Path

O Little-ole Path,
Through the meadow land.
To a place where the faucet,
Is turned-on by hand.

So it will give moisture,
To the aster path.
And make a small trickle,
By the back-fence lath.

Where thirsty little rootlets,
Entangle and miss.
And reach out their arms,
In a hug...and a kiss.

And the birds take notice,
Of the oozing drip.
As the cricket by the stone,
Gives voice to his lip.

O that little winding pathway,
That my two feet has made.
And the water around the edges,
In beauty...has been paid.


E.P. 1908 - 1989