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Annual Returns


If money grew on trees,

How happy we'd be then,

The children rolling in dough,

The fathers raking it in.


With holdings in the branches

Showing a big return,

The Trees would drop a fortune,

We'd all have money to burn.


As autumn leaves, however,

We find the poor still poor.

The falling stocks in trees

Are swept away from the door.


So what became of the boy

Whom teachers had to scold,

Who stared and stared out windows

Into the lands of gold,


Where after school he spent

His lonely afternoons

And shuffled home knee-deep

In rubies and doubloons?


He listens to the leaves

That rattle in a squall,

Still dreaming of a world

That profits from the fall.


Greg Williamson



From The Silent Partner, Story Line
Press, 1994.  Reprinted by permission
of the author and Story Line Press,
Ashland, Oregon.



Backgrounds by
Beary Unique Graphics


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