The Passerby in the Over-Grown Disused Ozuk Fields of Garafnilla

No one ate berries in the house, No man, no cat, no bird nor mouse The path to our house lies disused In tumbled weeds of pale chartreuse I saw a man arrive today He seemed distracted near our way He lived and left and did not play Our path wasn’t his, he seemed to say But is our path so dull and flat? We have put out our welcome mat, This home is small and colored dark vanilla, And boring, to the gleaming Ozuk fields of Garafnilla Yet we are here, we hold all dear, He passed us by this time, but we’re All waiting for when he looks back Into the indistinct off-beat track If he returns, we’ll all have tea, And dance to records merrily Our obsolete lives all verily show It isn’t what ticks, but more what grows. He seemed so confused he didn’t know That we are where he ought to go For on that path he’ll find deep snow The haunted places and the slow But the man, we’re sure, was only distracted He’ll come to us, and we’ll be enacted “What a fool I was!” he’ll smile and say When the time has come for that fateful day. So the moss and weeds were his path for truth And he shan’t know till he’s less aloof Sometimes what berries themselves have sown Is what we want to eat when grown. Mark Burton Sunday, February 11, 2001, 10:45 P.M.