clover lies baking in the sun,
waiting to be rolled upon by
the fuzzy fur of the buzzing bee.
Trees whisper their secrets
and wave for attention,
as nonplussed tufts of cloud
float by... unconcerned,
yet deeply committed.
Chippering cheeps and squeaky squawks
trill quietly... only the wee ones
remain alert... the old and jaded worship
in early morn and at dusk... they are mute
in the work-a-day of adult endeavor.
No matter how hard mankind tries,
his cars, and mowers, and chain saws
do not engage the senses in the peace
of the moment... even his songs
become lamentably trite
against the glare of the noon day sun.
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