The Dour-Glower

The dance of the dilettantes hasn't many steps. It isn't meant to be remembered, nor to cause upset; it's simply meant to get us through, like breakfast spent in bed. It gives us comfort just to know our words have just been read. And if a noble Dour-Glower 'gins to shake his head, that's just fine and dandy, we'll tuck him safe and sound, and read to him instead --- Once, I met a Dour-glower walking through an orchard "How dare they call you apple trees; you're only whisps of bark! You haven't many leaves, and you're little more than seeds! You think you're special with your flowers, yet I've never seen you fruit!" screamed the Dour-glower. What could the saplings do? All of it was true. They couldn't drop their leaves, nor tear apart their petals. But as the Dour-glower took his leave, the sun above shone true. The soil of the field was just as sweet and craddled every root.