Oh when the sun goes down, the fireflies come out. In a pond crept a slimy thing that hummed a theme from the Rites of Spring. Pity the mate of Queen Mantis, so content, but so headless. Katydid nothing but shiver and cry, as did the dragonfly. In the shade the gypsies spin Among the cloves, they drop their skin.
Regeneration occurs at a furious speed beneath the white oak tree.
Oh when the sun comes up the moon buds fold up. Could've been a swan on a glassy lake. Could've been a gull in a clipper's wake. Could've been a ladybug on a windchime, but she was born a dragonfly. Sounds like the millstones when they are turning, but every moment getting louder and louder, and then there is silence, and the smell of flowers.