The Truth about the Day

The day sits quietly on its meadow.
It doesn’t take you very seriously.
You do with it or not as you wish —
Or so you think, for the day,
Quietly in control, moves secretly.
You call it leisurely, a languorous day,
And the day says “Fine” as it hurries
Its secret clouds and coded winds.
You say it’s a rain-soaked, miserable day,
But then you find that orange flowers
Have been nodding all along
On miles of hills beneath the mist.