• Sitting in the rocking hamock I feel the gentle breeze
    making ripples on the pond,
    whipering through the trees.
    coming from the south, the west
    blowing summer to my face
    flitting about at a hurried pace
    and so I wonder . . .
    Why does the breeze hurry?
    For it has nowhere to go.
    And why does it carry the scent of Summer
    across the lake to me?
    And why does it rarely slow?
    What is the scent of summer?
    I ask,
    I think its blossoms and pine.
    All these thoughts flitting about my mind.
    The breeze ruffles my hair.
    Which brings us back to breezes.
    So I ask again,
    "Why is the breeze so hurried?"
    But the breeze never answers
    my queries,
    Whispered to the summer air.

    By lilbopeep101 biggrin