.
In the butterfly I see,
The soft seeding of mystery,
In the buzz of bees,
There are immortal histories,
As the wild geese fly,
I hear monks chanting on high,
In crow of craven rook,
There is wisdom more than book,
By heron there is knowing,
Cycles of life in still waters flowing,
In sky for all to witness,
Clouds shaping our dreams, limitless,
In symmetries of snowflake,
Are whispers louder than any thunderclap,
Swans in sky, if we would look,
Hum their wings as babble from brook,
In a blade of green grass,
Their are running grains of hourglass,
In temple of solitary pine,
There is a scent intoxicating as wine,
At the ponds edge are fables,
Deep as the sun sparkling on its tables,
In dear wood there are fires bright,
In the eyes that hear and see at night,
On the great oceans are crests,
More shining, noble than any kings breast,
In the grey, lowly moth I see,
A wondrous butterfly wanting to be.