In black, rich earth he plants his eyes and seeds
furiously, digs deep hole after hole.
More motion than thought, he rips out all weeds
blindly, instinctive like a busy mole.
He moves and talks not missing a beat, quick
in his answers, perfectly measured, selling
a point you know not true, wonderful trick,
so good, fools even him in the telling.
But doesn't he see as the time creeps more,
the truth will be revealed in a bit,
and hiding the obvious is a chore,
like all habits, it is so hard to quit.
He digs and digs, this is the life he made,
oblivious, he has planted in shade.
