Baby helicopters land
in the towering blades of grass.
Their big maple parents impart final
words of wisdom on the philosophy of trees:
grow up to the birds by digging down to the worms.
The green seeds obey,
wriggling their toes into the soil and
shooting their hand into the air.
'Pick me! Pick me, Sun!' they say.
They breath in those first big gulps of city air,
exhaling continuing life for us all.
All through spring and summer,
they grow: down and then up.
The wind blows through their green hair,
making them feel alive.
But in autumn, they blush at the thought of winter nakedness.
They try to cover up their bare limbs with snow clothes,
only for the bullying wind to fray their cold sweater,
flake by flake, until nothing is left but a pile of yarn on the ground.
The self-conscious adolescents protest to the peeping wind
with the dry clacking of their branches.
Finally, mother earth gets fed up with their complaining, and
sends the warm sunshine back.
The proud trees display their new buds
in a road side spring fashion show.