Robes of Red

Said the merchant to the shepherd:

"It must be dreadful to be poor.

With only sheep for company,

Don't you ever wish for more?

Look at all my finery,

My jewels and threads of gold.

My satin, silk, soft long robes,
And woven colors bold."

"I'm more rich than you think, my friend."

The shepherd humbly said.

"I have pearls and jewels as well

And robes of deepest red."

"Ha!" The merchant scoffed.

"Well, I know you are in jest,

For if you had such things,

You'd wear them like the rest!"

The shepherd then smiled softly

And said "Come, follow me."
He started down a path,
Then looked back, beckoning.

At first the merchant laughed

But he saw the shepherd's eyes

Were serious and calm

And strangely, somehow wise.

Together they walked down the path.

Until they came upon 

A meadow fresh with morning's dew

Sparkling in the sun.

"Behold my pearls," the shepherd said.

The man gazed at the sight.

The beaded dew was beautiful.

So small and yet so bright.

Together they walked further

To a large grove of trees.

The leaves shone with vibrancy

A luminous, deep green.

"Look, emeralds,"said the shepherd.

The merchant  struck with awe

Agreed, "Indeed!" He said.

Amazed at what he saw.

"Look above." The shepherd  said.

"And see the threads of gold

Woven in a robe of blue

So brilliant and so bold."

The merchant looked and saw the sky,

The sun was going down.

The atmosphere was tinged with gold

Much like a misty crown.

"Come here and I'll show you,

My robes of deepest red."

He led him to a rose bush

And then the shepherd said,

"These roses are so delicate

But the thorns have pierced my head.

I gave this beauty, and my life.
So you could live again."

The merchant then fell to his knees

Before the Holy Being.

"Forgive me Lord, for all my wrongs.

You truly are a King."

Beautiful Weed

There was a weed

In a garden of daisies.

She felt like she

Didn't belong.

Small, plain and green,

She wondered why

She didn't bloom,

And this was her song:

Why am I here?

I wasn't planted.

I am so different, 

Something is wrong.

Everyday 

She felt very strange.

Would she be like this

Her whole life long?

One day it rained.

The clouds echoed her pain.

She felt so alone,

So she sang her song:

Why am I here?

I wasn't planted.

I am so different, 

Something is wrong.

Then morning came.

The sun smiled down.

The weed felt alive,

And somehow strong.

She realized then,

That she had grown.

Her blossom had been

Within all along.

Although it was different,

And not the right shade,

She felt beautiful,

And this was her song:

I know why I'm here.

I have my own story,

I'm not a daisy, I'm a

Morning glory!

Magic on My Face

The rain is magic on my face.
I wouldn't be in any other place.
Right here right now, with only me,
So alive, and feeling free.

Bring on the thunder, welcome the storm.
I might be cold, but I'm still warm.
The lightning brightens up the day,
In just a different sort of way.
 
The clouds are wringing out my fears.
Pouring out the sky's own tears.
Washing the world until it shines
And then the tears and light combine.
 
The sun peeks out with one warm grin
The wet washed world welcomes it in.
It blankets the whole droplet land
And makes something bold and grand.

A dazzling place, so vibrant green
A ready world so bright and clean.
So, bring on the thunder, bring on the rain
It sings out- Begin again!