Fluttering from flower to flower,
moving along before he is settled.
Wings beating, creating a soft purr.
Searching, he remains baffled.
Confident, he’ll know it when he finds it:
Tasting each morceaux* and rejecting.
Knowing he will never quit,
until he has the piece that makes him sing.
Even then, he will begin again
because one song is never enough.
No need to rush, he is zen.
Hes job is long, hard, and tough.
Using the breeze to guide his flow
he flutters gently through the meadow.
*morceaux = piece, it is French.
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