The Crescent Moon: The Flower School

The Flower School

When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,

The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its
bagpipes among the bamboos.

Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.

They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come
out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a
corner.

When the rains come they have their holidays.

Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in
the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the
flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.

Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
are.

Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know
why they are in such a hurry?

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have
their mother as I have my own.

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