A flower tells the wind it's set to bloom next day.

The wind hears it as right away

And whispers pass it on to the next wind passing by,

Till word reaches the wackiest young wind there is.

This wind steers a cloud in, drains it of rain,

Stokes the sun's furnace to a rising glare,

Shakes up the whole village, carrying on no end,

Bangs everywhere, demanding what color the flower will turn.

So the good flower decides, without any delay

To blow its moist bud's green cover.

Flower blooms a white all white the wind keeps

Tugging at and yelling: "White, it's white, all white!"