Bestowed by a poet,
On tarmac midst an heavenly garden?
If you haven't, do it,
No need to wonder what you'll do with them,
They will find their way home,
Like us all, they are drawn down to the ground,
Unlike us, they've naught for which to atone,
You will find your way back from whence you came,
Not from whence you were born,
Alone in a bed, where else should you be,
When you're feeling forlorn?
You take the seeds,
Wish they'd grow in your palm,
Branches to take you high up to the sky,
With naught but A Hawke's limes for consumption.