“When does the butterfly in flight read what’s written on its wings?”
When do the blushing blooms stop smiling to reflect?
When does the gushing stream pause to listen to it’s tunes?
When do the raindrops falling retreat to frown and fret?
When does the sprouting seedling ponder about it’s fate?
When do the falling leaves whisper in regret?
When do the waves ever rising and falling
Stall their ceaseless motions to sleep or to rest?
With apologies to Pablo Neruda for stealing the first line from his poem.