Poetry

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A speck of dirt sits all alone
Atop a table made of stone

The lonely grain is full of heat
Despite the cold of its stone seat

The grain was told to become cold
By every speck of rotten mold

But he knew better then the rest
He knew that he would pass the test

He kept the warmth without complaint
With hope that no one else could taint

Finally one day a bird came by
In need of warmth lest he would die

A nest he built upon the stone
And saw the grain there all alone

He felt its warmth upon his beak
Now heat he would not have to seek

The heat of that lone grain of sand
Could then be felt throughout the land

The small amount of hope he had
Heated the hearts of all the sad

Never again would heat be needed
The hope of one had then succeeded

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