“Till the cows come home,”
My grandfather used to say.
And there were “chickens coming home to roost.”
And there were “creeks (that might or might not) rise.”
We were told to “let sleeping dogs lie.”
Four of my four grandparents lived on farms at some point in their lives.
Have you ever lived on a farm?
Have you ever worked on one?
Have you ever visited one?
Some years ago, I happened to catch a small segment of
“Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”
And the question was: “Which plant has been genetically modified to glow in the dark when it needs water?”
The answer was “Potato” but what was far more interesting than that was this:
No-one understood how it would be useful because potatoes grow under the ground.
The audience was mystified. Regis Philbin was mystified. The contestant was mystified.
To these folks, the potato magically appears in the ground
(And for that matter, magically goes from there to the grocery produce aisle.)
Without need of stem, root, leaf, or flower.
Without need of gardener, rain, or fertilizer either.
The only part that matters is the part we see.
Insofar as we’re concerned, there’s no real “to be”
Except the part we see on TV
Which becomes the real reality.
Of course, none of my grandparents would have made that mistake.
They saw throughout all their days
The way life plays
Round in cycles
Round in circles
Seasons come and go
And every part of a plant
Is the plant is a plant is the plant.
If we become too involved in TV land
And far too little in the land of land,
Forget the cycles of the earth;
Forget that death is guaranteed at birth;
Forget that plastic lives forever
Because it has no circle
Has no cycle
Has no soul
It’s only goal
To make someone lots of cash
Regardless of the gaping gash
Our destruction of the earth is to our own soul.
We won’t be happy
Once we win the race to No-where-ville
We won’t be happy
If we believe TV is all of There-is-ville.
Not even if we do it
Till the cows come home.
Not even if we sue it
Till the cows come home.
Not even if we rue it
Till the cows come home
And all the chickens,
Come home to roost.
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The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise
The Walkabout Diaries: Symphony
The Walkabout Diaries: How Beautiful and Green
petersironwood 
I heard the same sayings growing up – Mom a farmer.