The tea kettle sings not because it has attained the pinnacle of its vocation, but because it is a vessel of transformation, bubbles dancing in tumult aimed at the surface.
Consider two butterflies, wings lightly brushed with rain. Each move tinged with the whisper of a storm far away, a storm their delicacies may never fully know. Entangled realities holding, releasing, and holding again.
Ponder a moment captured within glass, a terrarium of thoughts that waltz like dandelions in a gentle breeze, touching here, releasing there, yet always seeking each other within their insulated hug.
Above the Murmur Earthen Bound In the Cradle