There are some things that aren't
Very showy from the start.
They're not like a high blue sky,
Or nature's meadow lark.

They're more like unto a weed
Growing amongst the grain,
Or the dark storm clouds
Before a gentle rain.

They seem to be a square peg
In a round hole world.
Kinda like a stately flag
That won't quite unfurl.

Like a tree - lofty and tall,
But clothed only in green.
Blending with the forest
To hardly be seen.

Then the sun will rise to
Drown a dark night;
Or a hot, muggy day be
Forgotten in twilight.

Often after a rough storm
A rainbow will appear,
Filling us with calm
And drying away a tear.

For even like the thorn
That on a stem grows;
It all pales in reality-
With the blooming of the rose.