The Hollow Harvest
For years, woodpeckers that worked on redwood
by Adebayo Olabisi
Boasted that the mortars they carved are good;
The toad that hopped and croaked across the fields
Claimed that they've spun loop after loop of beads;
With readiness, cards everywhere express
The Peerlessness of their arcane oil press;
When weaver birds chatter, flutter and zoom;
They extol their artistry on the loom ...
But who could pound any real matter
With the woodpecker's brand of mortar?
Who would ever adorn his daughter
With the beads those toads flaunted thither?
Which soup could be blended with the oil
Pressed by crabs after years of raw toil?
Never could the best weaver bird's nest
Shape a fez, a bedspread or a vest...
Chaff in bags is but a hollow harvest,
Where grains compose the matter of interest.