I am hoping that by this, you will uderstand that great things take time and patience and a lot of hard obstacles in which you muust persevere to find the true beauty.
You're at the park,
swarmed with bright, happy, smiling children.
But something stops the commotion.
A single drop of rain
splatters on the pavement,
falling to the ground.
A storm begins.
The children cry
in fear
of the crashing, loud, roll of thunder.
But...
you don't move.
A lightning bolt crashes down
a mile or two back.
People rush to safety,
in their cars.
But...
you don't move.
Parents call for their children.
The children cry
for their Mummys and Daddys.
Dogs bark instinctively.
But...
still you don't move.
Birds flock into the trees
in thousands...
maybe millions...
Cars zoom by,
windows being rolled back up,
water and mud are splashed.
But...
you don't move.
You sit alone, in the barren park,
soaked,
still sitting at the same picnic table.
On the table is a jar.
It contains
an ugly, dry, clump
of gray webbish stuff,
bunched together in an oval shape.
One might think you odd
for keeping such a horrifying thing
in a jar
filled with colorful flowers,
bright green leaves,
and hazel brown sticks and twigs...
fresh from spring's season's trees.
They might ask.
But...
you don't move.
You are
watching...
Waiting...
They might leave,
uninterested.
But...
During all that commotion,
it was getting ready.
And finally...
it turns into something
so beautiful and majestic;
colorful and amazing.
Out comes a butterfly.
And all this time...
New life has begun.
Poetry by Catherine Stout
Read 952 times
Written on 2006-06-05 at 01:17
Tags Nature
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New Life has Begun
It's a beautiful day;You're at the park,
swarmed with bright, happy, smiling children.
But something stops the commotion.
A single drop of rain
splatters on the pavement,
falling to the ground.
A storm begins.
The children cry
in fear
of the crashing, loud, roll of thunder.
But...
you don't move.
A lightning bolt crashes down
a mile or two back.
People rush to safety,
in their cars.
But...
you don't move.
Parents call for their children.
The children cry
for their Mummys and Daddys.
Dogs bark instinctively.
But...
still you don't move.
Birds flock into the trees
in thousands...
maybe millions...
Cars zoom by,
windows being rolled back up,
water and mud are splashed.
But...
you don't move.
You sit alone, in the barren park,
soaked,
still sitting at the same picnic table.
On the table is a jar.
It contains
an ugly, dry, clump
of gray webbish stuff,
bunched together in an oval shape.
One might think you odd
for keeping such a horrifying thing
in a jar
filled with colorful flowers,
bright green leaves,
and hazel brown sticks and twigs...
fresh from spring's season's trees.
They might ask.
But...
you don't move.
You are
watching...
Waiting...
They might leave,
uninterested.
But...
During all that commotion,
it was getting ready.
And finally...
it turns into something
so beautiful and majestic;
colorful and amazing.
Out comes a butterfly.
And all this time...
New life has begun.
Poetry by Catherine Stout
Read 952 times
Written on 2006-06-05 at 01:17
Tags Nature
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
