Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’.
When paths aren’t all that tangled,
and dreams are spun and cast,
and bushels aren’t as fragrant
as the gardens we have passed,
will you still sing of Behrman,
when you rise to note what’s last?
When some boats aren’t that sturdy
and beaches boast as grand
and hands aren’t all that calloused
by the tilling of the land,
will you still write of playtime when you’ve grown too tired for sand?