He scowled as he waited for guidance.
“Why bother to explain yourself to a breeze, when it is the ocean that listens?
Why elaborate on the flame when it burns away all evidence of itself?
If the winter designs the spring without discussion, and
The summer designs the fall in silent gratitude, why keep notes?
If tomorrow doesn’t ask how many bare feet are waiting to feel the warm earth, and
The mountain doesn’t question the snow, is there a point to your query?”
The mystic remembered lilacs and smiled at his folly.