What is a puddle,
but a infantile lake with thoughts of growing
A bead on the window, rolling down,
a dream to be a stream flowing
A mist then rain starting it all,
while helping to keep all things going
Our bucket of dreams starts with the first drop
A whisper of wind, gently making leaves dance and play
A gust much fiercer that brings a chill to the day
Storms with great forces, that sweep things away
Sometimes what is needed
A sun that rises, bringing smiles and warmth
back to us and the earth
A chance to gather ourselves, in merriment and mirth
Envisioning hope, like the presence of a new birth
Hope again rising