It is not the lecture of the chore,
but the crackling of the leaves.
Nor the explanation of the weather,
but the whisper of the breeze.
It is not the lesson of the fowl,
but the flutter of the wings.
Nor the reasoning of the notes,
but the echoe of it's ring.
It is not the description of the fire,
but the touch of the flickering flame.
Nor the statistics of the dice,
but the clatter of the game.
It is not the message of conservation,
but the rustling of planted trees in the grass.
Nor the warning of the danger,
but the sound of metal's crash.
It is not the documented construction,
but the pounding of the nails.
Nor the cheering of the race,
but the sudden fall's wail.
It is not the phonics of the sound,
but the depth of movement it will make.
Nor the voice of goodbye,
but the patter of footsteps waking away.
It is not the theory of relativity,
but the twinkling of the stars.
Nor the philosophy of humanity,
but the beating of one heart.
