A Still Hunt

He’s down upon his hands and knees,

     He worried looks, alas!

He’s crawled a half an hour or more

     Down in the weeds and grass.

Sometimes he thinks he’s met with luck,

     A smile will light his face;

Then doomed to disappointment he,

     And sorrow creeps apace.

Something he’s lost and cannot find

     And worry clouds his brow;

He knew just where he dropped it, but

     He cannot find it now.

Ah, no! It is not cash he lost,

     ‘Tis not his watch or ring;

It is the little garden spot

     He planted in the spring!

July 27, ‘09