To every laborer in God’s own field
Who comes with their sickle, ready to wield,
Eager to work with all of their might
To bring in the harvest that’s golden and white—
The Laborer
Potential
The Rose
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.
Potential
The breeze washing over me, from where does it come?
The passing bumblebee, how does it hum?
The chasing birds, how do they fly?
And why is it blue—the heavenly sky?
Caterpillars and Butterflies
What raises the crawling caterpillar
Above the common plain,
Allowing her to soar above
And lofty heights obtain?
A Weed’s Worth
I want to be a rose—all proper, trim, and neat;
Raised above the common, in her elevated seat.
She is the lover’s flower, evoking ooohs and aaahs,
The flower for which the world smiles in admirable applause.
And when she goes a walking, she spreads a fragrant scent,
That travelers pause in wonder to warmly compliment.
Once Upon A Rhyme 