Everyone here has their role
Their place, their purpose, their niche, or their hole
Scarlet speckled wings will flit about
While cerulean breezes whistle and shout
Peachy tints and cream colored hands
Capture softly muffled milky strands
They line the sugar frosted buttery hues
Of cheery honeysuckles; the bees stop and snooze
It is here in this shade, this canopy of green
Where the blades of grass lull and lean
Where the hot sun’s fingertips first appear
In the glint of its grasp and a cool shadow’s sneer
It is here in this jungle, exotic and wild
Where the willows plunge downward so serene and so mild
It is here in this vision that those cream colored hands
Let fall the sweet blossom with soft milky strands
For with a swift sea of concrete and sticky black tar
That pleasant blossom withered and was trampled by cars
The melodious echo of sapphire breezes
Was fiercely stifled by creation’s sneezes
The tantalizing scent of daffodils and roses
No longer lingered on taste buds or noses
The child with the cream colored hands
That lovingly cradled those soft milky strands
No longer sought jungles, canopies, visions
But the cracks in the asphalt he watched with precision
Everyone here has the role
Their place, their purpose, their niche, or hole
O when those cream colored hands let that withered blossom fall
They questioned so pensively, “Do I have no place at all?”