Above the land, suspended,
green and grand and splendid,

we furnish food for trees,
whisper with the breeze

till cold winds bluster in
and we turn harlequin.

Now that we’re on the ground,
you tote your toys around,

which scrape us up or, roaring,
send us whirling, soaring.

Yes, now that we are dead,
you have it in your head

that we must disappear—
and year on turning year

that all of us must go
to be replaced by snow.