Bugs

Cellulose...gray, galvanized and worn
Hides the insects from which they were born
Wind, rain, cold and heat seek to do the crushing of feet
They mob and pile and drown for awhile
To be filled with life and ooze with nothing to choose

Dirt

Roots in earth, wormy things and birth
We have a short ways to go
The blow as we grow, the cry of good-bye
We have a short ways to fall
Through the branchy things, the grabby things
The things that make us crawl

The gift of a Father

The gift of a son is less than the gift  of a father
For the son knows not what he is
The son will become heartbreak when he sees the ways of his father... eventually
Good or bad... he will not follow
The gift of the father lays upon knowing this
Expect nothing and give every respect
Know the son will follow his path to joy... let him break your heart to find it.