by April Chen
Baby buds in the tree,
Whoopla whoopla want to flee.
“Mama, Mama, can we play
In the air and on the ground?”
Tree mama holds them in her arms:
“Staying here can be safe and sound.
When there is time to play,
I will wave my arms to let you sail.”
But little buds are naughty kids,
Follow the blows when mama sleeps.
Floating, dancing in the air,
Losing themsleves in joyfull delight.
When the blows’ settled, wind’s stopped,
Baby buds fall to floor.
“Mama, mama, take me home.”
But mama could never hear them cry.
Baby buds’ pinky faces,
Faded to gray and rotted to clay.
When the blows come once more,
Do you want to play again?