City Poem

Here I sit, my head turned to the sky,
By smog the sky has been stained, like dye.

The sky scrappers are dreary and depressing,
The birds hardly dare to make ears ring.

This city bogs me down,
I feel I might drown.

But God's soft, gentle hand touches me,
And I put my head down and this is what I see:

Little daffodils raise their pretty heads,
And small flowers stop looking dead.

Peaceful buds grow their fuzz,
And a few bees begin to buzz.

Some smooth sun rays fall,
On how many flowers? All.

The Lord always finds us, even in the city.