Poetry

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What value then is a Man,if from Life he surely ran,and what value have a Tree;it has an Eye that its Leaves can see,A Tree
don't run;Man may follow where the Sun's in sight,Life is odd when
I am not being good,the fields of green are aptly seen,until snow
becomes a silent keeper,and the green becomes a nightime sleeper,
some values are at a loss,and Snowflakes are like so much dross,
is Life just like my old armchair;Ilook at it and it becomes like
a quiet Chum,forever upon the ground upon; has a rood,not a dome,
have its place like any tome,have a home no need to roam,unlike
its owner who's day have come,for some how time do run,GOD'S GRACE,will then also plumb.
Joe.

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