You're the grass in the meadow

You're the single cloud in the sky

You're the rain on the tin roof

You're the breeze that sways the

limbs on the trees

But you're not the honey in the hive

Nor the sugar in the sweet iced tea

And definitely not the soft glow of

The sun that casts its light over the

Small town at noon

You might be the cool shadow under the tall

oak tree on a hot summer day

Or maybe, just maybe, you're the lull in the air

But most certainly not the sweet smell of

honeysuckle in the summer.

Listen closely to my words and you

will learn that you are not the leaves

on the ground beneath the fall of heavy

boots.

Nor are you one of the thousands of

ants marching in line.

I am many things in a poetic sense.

I am the road less traveled by,

the robin perched in the apple orchard,

the long sleepless night,

and the warm apple pie cooling on the window

sill.

But I'll never be the grass in the meadow.

Why?

Because you are the grass in the meadow

And you always will be.

not to mention-somehow-the single

cloud in the sky.