The rain is famous to the crops.
The idea is famous to the inventor,
Which knew it would benefit the world,
Before anyone could fathom it.
The drifting bee in the meadow is famous to the flowers,
Waiting patiently in the breeze.
The sweat is famous, briefly, to the brow.
The love you cherish deep in your heart,
Is famous to your heart.
The fork is famous to food,
More famous than the spoon,
Which is only famous to soup.
The rusted locket is famous to the one who wears it,
And not at all famous to the one who gave it.
I want to be famous to sprinting children,
Who laugh wholeheartedly,
Wandering adolescents in classrooms,
Famous as the one who guides them.
I want to be famous in the way a landscape is famous,
Or a sunset, not because they are beautiful,
But because they spark inspiration for others to be famous.