It's easy to take pictures, assemble them, and see the scrapbook of reality unfolding its truths and balance sheets, full of morality and credits. At least according to society’s prevailing winds. And yet, the flow permits snapshots but it does not abide stoppage interpretations: movement and minutes conspire to an understanding ongoing, knowledge reserving judgement to a day that will not finally arrive. Butterflies know it well, for the wind and weather must be a friend for death and re-birth to come to brilliance, who make continuance, reticence, and impulse. If feeling is the stuff of inclinations and the house of whirls implies destinations, the work of life, not of a life, is to converse, to be the back and the forth, gaining nothing by ledges, and everything by falling and rising. -- Edited from the original poem.