Not Born A Rose
A chrysanthemum wasn’t born a rose;
a meadow or stream; not meant a sea;
fingers, not designed to be your toes;
these are things, as were planned to be.
A man’s not a bird; capable of flight;
nor, can he remain submerged too long;
daytime is the counterpunch to night;
musical notes are required for a song.
Grasses are green for a particular reason;
flowers are different colors; for style;
all life is cyclical; living only a season;
then, becoming dormant, for a while.
None are too short; and none are too tall;
circumstance is destiny’s palatte;
when playing croquet, with a wooden ball;
you must srike that ball with a mallet.
Everything, happens for a reason;
there is absolutely no exception;
all things alive, have a dormant season;
for, sleep is a form of protection.
Everything was created, by the Master’s voice;
born, to appreciate whatever we’ve got;
every circumstance, was the Master’s choice;
we are who we are; not who we’re not.
A chrysanthemum wasn’t born a rose;
all things came about by decree;
in a season of time, truth will disclose;
you must be you; and I must be me.
Monty 1/5/23. # 1,404