Thoughts without words seem harmless in themselves.
The magic mushrooms open tiny caps,
grey parasols in the morning mist, they
have no thoughts or words to express their joy
at rising early from the soil beneath
the shady trees, sending forth their first spores.
Words without thoughts may not be so harmless.
The blundering butterfly may find a net,
assiduously spun by dawn's spider,
a glistening rainbow in the morning sun,
a pretty architectural miracle
to dog walking man, after angry words.
Words without actions may become a lie.
The fleecy clouds that never lead to rain
provide welcome shade from the glaring sun;
a promise to refresh a dried up land
that may not be kept by thoughtless nature,
whose actions do not require reflection.
Actions before words are the general rule.
A stooping bird plucks the spider from its web:
the dog barks and lunges at the bird and
the man, distracted from his reverie,
when dragged along, starts shouting at his dog,
as actions beget words in ready tongues.
Thoughts without actions may seem otiose,
but only to those of muscular bent,
intent on becoming a primal cause,
throwing sticks for dogs, they are not content
with just seeing, knowing and keeping still,
like calm waters undisturbed by the wind.
Actions without thoughts are distinctly right,
for creatures clinging to their limbic roots,
as contemplation without action won't
fill the belly or reproduce their kind.
Mind, that ghostly adjunct to the body,
a disobedient wife, won't walk behind.