Ode to the river rocks

Do the river rocks get thirsty
under the hot summer sun?
Do the old oak trees get tired
standing for so long?
Do the huge stormy clouds get sad
seeing everyone turn and run? 
And do the little flowers say goodbye
when all are picked but one?

 

Do the field mice say goodnight
to their little mouse loved ones?
Does the soil get an ache
from being incessantly stepped on?
Do the mountains get competitive 
about who has more times been won?
And does the wind tell them all stories
about it’s never ending fun?

 

To be human is to love,
and to love is oh so human.
From the flowers plucked and primed to perfection,
to the river rocks bathed in all my affection.
A soul is not a face,
nor a voice, or a body.
If you just stop to look, you’ll see it.
If you smell the roses, they will be it.

 

Feeling, thinking, loving,
things so reserved with a little paper sign,
are truly in all manner of things,
they’re not just yours and mine.

So whenever I walk among them I ask,
even though every time I’m answered.
Do you river rocks get thirsty?
Do you stormy clouds get sad? 
Do you old oak trees get tired?
Or are you all forever glad?
Glad to be here,
to be living, to be breathing?
We’re all just feeling, she responds.
Feeling, thinking, reeling.