Rhubarb Gone to Pies

And the mole walked in the garden
Trailing rake and spade
Stumbling root and snuffing candle
As his homeward path he made.
"I was worried; I was waifish,"
The mud-caked mole replied.
"That the carrots had all gone to seed
And the rhubarb gone to pies."

And the mole walked in the gloaming
Passing trees with shade so long
Sniffing at the radish scent
Whistling with the meadowlark song.
"I wax weary; I feel homish,"
Mole muttered with heavy breath.
"The crows come daily, cawing, greedy,
I would stone them all to death."

And the mole, at well a-drinking,
Patting the sweaty brow
Snorting dirt from the nostrils
Is fair placated now.
"Oh the crows, the crows a-coming,"
Mole said, a smile bewitched
"They too have young ones, hungry,
Fed on corn that they have snitched."

"And the squirrels," the mole said, warming,
"Chitter and scold with ease
As my raspberries they plunder
Without an 'If you please.'"
"But as the thunder cometh,"
Mole said as breath is short,
"The food they steal is taken to
Their numerous, young cohorts."

And the mole abed a-snoring
Thinks of the rain and sun
That come as their need arises
To fall on everyone.
"The sun, not mine to shift,"
Mole said in a slumb'ring sigh
"And rain not mine to gather,
But belong to them on high."