The Agony in the Garden

A bitter boy knelt in a pile of dirt,
And tears furrowed his cheek. A spinach leaf
Covered him, and the young corn hid his grief.
The morning had grown to acres of hurt,
And there was no way out. Weeding was doom.
No plastic soldiers now would charge the peas,
Or cool Tonka trucks rumble through the seas
Of carrot tops. Amidst the onions gloom
Was all. The glory of a sunflower
In August, or a cabbage in the fall,
Was not enough to stop his cry. He’d weep,
And weep again, before the sorry hour
Had passed. For now, the sweat and filth were all
The harvest he could see, or think to reap.