The sturdy weeds
Wear raindrop hats,
The sky is foggy tea.
Why can't we live like
Flowers—joyous, watered,
And rent-free.
We seem to be more like
Blades of grass—
Too sure to be cut down.
And those that try
Won't be satisfied since
We come right back
Around.
The roads can be
Shallow rivers we adore
But they tend to turn
Bone-dry.
The outlook runs
Quite lush under foggy
Tea-like skies.