You are the noisy cuckoo bird,
The mother duck who guides her ducklings across the street.
You are the vast oceans and the waters,
And the fearless sky at early light.
You are the rubix cube on the kitchen counter,
And the chandelier swinging from the cracked old ceiling.

However you are not the silent chatter of the trees,
The elephant’s ear
Or the potters clay
And you are certainly not the overused sandpaper.
There is just no way that you are the overused sandpaper.

It is possible that you are the blind woman’s painting,
Maybe even the newborn puppy struggling to walk,
But you are not even close to being the dam holding back the water.

And a quick chat with anyone who knows you will prove
That you are neither the field of daisies,
Or the deep, restful marsh.

It might interest you to know that I am the taste of lemonade on a hot summer day.
I also happen to be the snowflake that doesn’t melt,
The little green sapling,
And the hammer and nail.

I am also the kangaroo with my little joey,
And the letter in the bottle.
But don’t worry, I’m not the noisy cuckoo bird.
You are still the noisy cuckoo bird.
You will always be the noisy cuckoo bird.
Not to mention the mother duck and--somehow-- her ducklings.