The Tiny Parade

​The "What-Ifs" start their morning march,

Stretching out beneath your arch.

They bring their drums and heavy boots,

And tug upon your spirit’s roots.

​It’s a dizzy dance, a tangled kite,

A storm cloud uninvited to the light.

But even with the hum and buzz,

You’re braver than the worry was.

​So let them march, then let them pass,

Like shadows moving o'er the grass.

You’re the captain, calm and true,

With skies of wide and open blue.