��������

The  Day of Small Things 

Who has despised the day of small things? 
Who has mocked the scenes of little beginings? 
Many scorn the mud bathed bricker's shirt,
While his "folly" has set up the dizzying flat.

Who has derided the old chewed poor pen;
While her vomit shaped one of a great ken?
One has looked at the canyon of the hill,
And deemed folly trickles of the tiny rill.

Jeered are the mumbled words of the half-toothed mouth,
Deformed alphabets of the little hands esteemed as folly or helpless or both,
But on that feeble foundation has stood the honored degree,
And it's a fact to that sane heads will agree.

The precious seed cast in the moist soil is apparent insanity,
And the back bent to weed the helpless crops seems vanity,
But this futility has been the chain that binds death at bay,
When the empty bellies would growl and with hunger decay.

The boring noise and dance of letters before the young minds,
Has shaped the great ones of all kinds,
And the little steps of the lone wayfarer,
Placed the records of a traveler ever gone farer.

Don't criticize the days of small things,
For greatness has flown on their wings,
The days when all seems not to prosper,
By them some sit on the thrones of jasper.

 @Brian©
All Rights Reserved