Not like a weed, but like a bonsai grows
Carefully tended. Left too much alone
It will not grow aright. The seed one sows
Does not always take root; sometimes what springs
Forth out of the ground does not resemble
What was intended, save in minor things--
This is the trust we all at times dissemble.
Sometimes it does not grow at all, and dies
Somewhere within the ground, or at the seed;
This is a life obsessed with constant lies
Regardless of their purpose or their need
And sometimes, rarely, it can grow as planned
In honest trust, a true, perfect right hand.
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