The whispering is what counts,

But the sun shines so loud

And fills up all the places where it comes.

The inside whispering is what counts,

But when it comes it is the dizzy time,

The wheeling of new birds,

The time of therapy,

And anesthesia of new warmth.

And soon there is no remembering of what it was that whispered.

It is the little bothering that counts

But there are many forms of aspirin

Not only flowers,

But the blissful watching of another’s eyes

And the sweet prolonged pain of waiting.

And when the sun shines so loud

And while we are concerned with the bee around our head

They, the vague bears that lumber in the back of vision,

Are camouflaged with branches of young leaves.

The sun is sweet

But it is the whispering that counts

And in the end

It dies away

Or sings in symphony.