| Life is like a hole - We dig for some treasure That we dream will make us full. The deeper we go, The farther we dig, The sun won't always show. Rain may fall And slow the shovel In a muddy wall. Wind will blow And throw dirt back down To again make the work slow. On a dry summer day, The dust may settle on your heart And there forever lie Or travel a good deal of the way. Sometimes we hit rock Or the spade may break. It's a permanent lock. We'll have to climb back up, Maybe scrape our shin, But pull ourselves to the top again. With a heart ache or pain, We try again - A new shovel we obtain. Here we may dig deeper, Or give up once again, only to sit and ponder: What's wrong with me? What did I do or not? Didn't I try furtively? No matter how many holes we dig, The yard isn't destroyed. Let's look at the picture that's big. After you begin The next trip in, Wind will blow And rain falls in. Though uncomforts they make now They fill the old holes once more Over which flowers will endow. Beauty comes from trial; Each hole influenced by the last. With each one you create a pile That serves as your past. Once you've reached the treasure, your clothes are soiled - All different browns, I'm sure. Some blisters have been forgotten, And others a scar made, But all entailed pain; Testing your moral grade. Sun rays on your back shone. At other times rain did scold, But you wouldn't have known the warmth Without the cold. |