I labored like an ox upon my land,
planting tender watermelon dreams.
The field was tilled, the soil prepared,
holes opened like small cradles,
filled with earth and manure’s promise.
I set each sapling gently,
bathed them in water, a blessing of life.
But when I returned from coffee’s warmth,
the garden was empty—
my neighbor’s cow had feasted
on the green beginnings of my hope.
Anger surged, a storm in my chest,
murderous thoughts flickered like fire,
yet wisdom placed its hand upon mine,
and I cooled, like curry left to rest.
Had I struck the cow,
my neighbor’s grief would have been endless—
his only beast, cherished as kin.
Instead, he sorrowed with me,
and vowed to plant anew.
I was grateful for restraint,
for the path of fury
would have led only to ruin.
