If grass of green were to judge skies
Of dark and gloomy blue
Before the sun had chance to rise
And melt the morning dew,
The grass should soon come to realize
Because of rain it grew
And sun looks better to ones eyes
After storms pass through.

That I of you want nothing more
Than to be grass of green
That does not by the rain keep score
But by the fires you’ve seen.
Unceasing sun becomes a chore
Without rain in between.

As roses lean toward the sun
Fall to their knees and learn
The disintegration had begun
With still no rain they burn.
In flames the roses die of stun
That rain needed a turn.