The cartographer’s son both young and bold
Found enchantment in his father’s art
So he took bee’s honey, burnished and gold
And applied it with care to an abandoned chart
He spread thick sweetness, end to end
Encompassing meadows and the village crops
For long he labored, and when finished he penned:
“A treat – for those tired of mere water drops.”
Later that night, as the sky grew dark
Villagers appraised the heavens with startled eyes
For among the rain, dull, dreary and stark
Fell drops of honey from conventional skies
The very next day he again took a map
Finding refuge under a plentiful tree
There he cradled ripe apples, filling his lap,
And balanced a single plump orange on his knee
Squeezing juice from the apples he soaked the orange seeds
Until each glowed with a wine red hue
He tossed them over the map where they rattled like beads
Before all found their place, planted roots, and grew
When dusk was approaching and shadows were high
The villagers gathered and gossiped, gay by the chapel
There they gazed on a miracle through astonished eyes
A tree with two fruits: both oranges and apples
For the third day that week the boy took a sketch
Of mountains and rivers and deserts and seas
He flattened the parchment till it smoothed and it stretched
And gathered in hand, sage, basil, and parsley
With the finest of knives he shredded the herbs
Till a dust had formed and coated the paper
There he left it for hours, alone, undisturbed
Until up rose a pungent yet quite pleasing vapor
When night again came the village pulsed with new life
Sharing hopes that again blessings might come to pass
No rain, no trees, yet the crowd remained blithe
And soon came sweet smells: hay, blossoms, and grass
When the fourth day had come the boy finally grasped
An acceptance to forge even more than he’d sown
From the shed he gathered: hammer, chisel, and rasp
And took from the garden a large rounded stone
The boy carved his own map with its meadows and seas
Gave it mountains, wetlands, grasslands, and dunes
Covering the stone, yes, that was the key
For its circular nature would be the earth’s boon
That night lost sailors knew death was near
To the edge of the world they each tipped their hat
Yet their ship did not slip at the edge of the sphere
And brave men soon learned their world was not flat
