Being What He Is

When he is in a garden’s eye,

The Earth is truly his

 

He never seems to will or was,

In being what he is

 

From bloom to bloom,

He is a blur, a blear of tiny wings �"

 

But when he sips the dew of day, 

He seems the gist of things

 

A vital soul, a toy of God,

A slight and sudden breeze

 

That zigzags through the hollyhocks,

Then, rushes for the trees

 

He hums his life and flutters fast �"

He is a mind aware,

 

That loving eyes are loving him,

When he is here and there.