A Poet’s Dream
I’m nothing but a blade upon the lawn of life,
That fertile bed on which a world of people grow.
Once tender green with time we turn a shade of brown;
A sign that like the rest, it is our time to go.
But how I wish that I could be that yellow rose
That stands out like the sun amid a sea of green;
That in my life I write those words in such a way
No other poet’s pad and pen has ever seen.
And even as my blossom wilts because of time,
I’d hope that like those roses that have grown before
I’d find like Frost, Walt Whitman, even Dr. Seuss,
My petals pressed in pages, there forevermore.