Can the stem sing the praises of the petals that make the flower shine as a thing of beauty? Can the pupil give accolades to the iris, the colorful halo that encircles its dark center? Can the muddy riverbanks show somehow their appreciation for the cool strong waters that give them shape, give them life, help make them what they are? Pride and appreciation radiate from all these quiet things. They exist without words, but not without feeling. Sometimes I am a quiet thing too.
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