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
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
But I'll never be the grass in the meadow.
Because you are the grass in the meadow
And you always will be.
not to mention-somehow-the single
cloud in the sky.