by Paul C. Binotto
© 2019
Papa, tell me why
Do you think,
The flowers drink,
Not from their mouths,
But, from their feet?
And, how does a rose
Smell so good, though
It hasn't a nose?
Papa, how, do you think?
Tell me all that you know.
And, Papa, tell me please,
Why they're called leaves
When they never
G0 anywhere ever;
Why aren't they called stays?
And, tell me Papa, why are there
As many nights, as there are days,
But we only count days in a year?
Papa, isn't it strange, why isn't it clear?
How can we be here until we're there,
And, then here again, when we're there?
Why bother going anywhere just to be here?
Papa, how, do you think?
Tell me all that you know.
Papa, isn't it strange, why isn't it clear?
Fostertales 