I
took the crumbs you gave me, father,
And
planted them in rows
Along
that old, muddy creek bed
Tucked
behind the summer home.
I
waited there, father, waited fearlessly
For
the grove of bread trees sure to grow,
Cupping
each bud as it emerged,
Watching
for season’s first loaf.
Imagine,
father, when the bread trees grow,
How
the people will walk between
And
wonder beneath their shades and lines
How
hunger came to be.
Wings
and beaks, father, wings and beaks
Stole
them from us, snatching,
Yet
I could not make them stop;
They
were hungry, so hungry, me watching.
I
fed your crumbs to the ducks, father,
And
I hope that it’s all right,
Next
season we’ll have bread trees, father,
And
they will feed us through the night.
