The Beauty Of Silence

No one's ever heard a butterfly,
It cannot speak nor sing,
It just hovers quietly around,
And shows off its pretty wings.
Each tiny wing - a masterpiece,
Of intricate design,
With hues that blend and complement,
So tranquil and refined.

And no one's ever heard a firefly,
Turn on its tiny light,
Without a click, it flips its switch,
And makes no noise in the night.

And there it is, in all its glory,
It's wee light flaashing off and on,
Until it disappears in silence,
Along with moths across the lawn.

And what about white fleecy clouds,
That aimlessly drift by?
They help us dream of things unseen,
Though we can't hear them in the sky.
Like soft meringue, they peak and hang,
Soundlessly above the ground,
They tantalize our seeking eyes,
We watch in awe; they make no sound.

Puffs of smoke from chimney tops,
Come skipping through the air,
Gentle breezes make them dance,
What lovely visions there.
But we can't hear a puff of smoke,
Nor can we hold it in our hands,
But we can watch it float away,
Silently across the land.

First snow of Winter on the ground,
Untouched, unmarked, pristine,
Lace-like frost on window panes,
Crystal icicles that gleam.
Impressive beauties, everyone,
That inspire men to whisper,
To not disturb the reverie,
Of such a wondrous mixture.

A white, full moon on a still, black night,
With a host of silver stars,
Free to see and wish upon,
And spend lovely, quiet hours.
In splendid stillness, lies that night,
With peaceful beauty there,
Which forces one to bended knee,
In grateful, silent prayer.

A baby's smile, a sleeping child,
A napping cat upon a lap,
Pleasurable and treasonable,
All silent joys that entrap.
True, a picture's worth a thousand words,
Though it never makes a sound,
It communicates in ways unheard,
And lasts forever and beyond.

It's the lovely, silent things we see.
That our ears will never hear,
That speak loudly to our listening hearts,
Distinct, succinct, and clear.