It is easy to be a sprig of parsley
bent in some small breeze, smelling of spring,
but every mole must dig and can not see
the gentle joy the light of day can bring

parsley can savor existence sweetly benign
growing with each rain drop and sunny day
the mole grows only tired burrowing a line
between each root without time to play

parsley’s humor may be chopped and dry
– a slender song of herb in boiled broth.
The mole can not joke and does not try
such frivolity is akin to sinful sloth.

Though parsley’s life is full of sunshine’s grace
I’d rather dig to find my God’s true face