Horticulture (Acrostic) Poem by Martin Moore

Having no recourse to pastures new
Other than to break the earths green crust
Riches long concealed emerge anew
Toil and grind can render gold from dirt
Included in this lost and age-old rite
Could all encompassed be the better for
Until the tomes of time we can unwrite
Lest we should fall like many times before
This then, our fervent wish should be
Until our aging hands can toil no more
Rescuing the fruits of fallen trees
Emboldened by this quaint esprit de corps