The funny thing with roses, they start as just a bud; Some take so long to open, they seem like just a dud. But no amount of wishing will make them open up, Like no amount of wanting removed the bitter cup.
I do always remember Him— At work and play, home and gym I do always remember Him— Deliberate, consistent, not on a whim I do always remember Him— Now and still when eyes grow dim I do always remember Him— My heart, all pride, I strive to trim I do always remember Him!
Worthless, crumpled little leaf— Cast off without a care; Set upon the listless wind, Carried here and there. You’re not but nature’s clutter To disgrace a pristine lawn; The only want we give you Is we want you good and gone! And the Lord within the Manor Sees you only as a chore; He’ll have to rake and bag you Which is irksome all the more.
The drought was getting serious, The situation bleak, And for the want of sustenance The village was getting weak. And the thing that was most needed, On the hot and thirsty plain, Was a life sustaining downpour— A good old-fashioned rain.
Another night, another week, Dark and gray and even bleak With snow and ice and bitter cold, As Summer’s sun and warmth is sold For Winter’s windy, chilly blast, That seems to last. . . And last and last.