Son of a Weatherman

I'm a son of a weather man,
Whose sole obsession is
To stare at the sky and hope it'll fall,
But I'm not like him,
Dare I ask why?
I love the smell of the air before
The waters plunge down,
I love rainbows visible and green grass,
Wet with heaven's dew.
Yet, I'm not my Father,
I can wait for eternity just staring at nature,
And Father is like me,
Except that he'd expect dollar signs to
Fall down with the rain.
I used to despise Father,
Because I've never quite seem to resemble him,
Sound like him,
Or like the things he likes,
Pray, should I even be like him at all?
I've learned, though,
That I'm never meant to be like him,
That it's alright to be myself,
To have my own ideals, opinions and goals,
And to have the rights to believe that money isn't everything.
Father, I pray that you'd understand one day,
That I'll always be yours,
But I'll never quite be the one you'd hope,
And my greatest desire is for you
To return a smile and embrace me.