I don’t want to stick out like a weed in a field of wildflowers.

Instead I hope to be a rose, beautiful and strong.

My crimson petals reaching up towards God,

My leaves whispering His praises to the wind that rushes by.

The bees will be my telephone,

Spreading the love of God to all the other flowers.

Our voices will float through the wind like a rushing stream

Our stems will extend like arms lifted in praise.

Each drop of rain will meet us like an anticipated promise

Nourishing our souls for whatever else happens in the field surrounding us.