The dark seeds of winter,
cold and seemingly barren,
cradle the leaves of summer
in their souls.
Soon, small green soldiers
will march forth and stand at attention,
while robins sing revelrie
in an old oak tree.
Can you hear the branches cry,
"Adorn me now
in boughs of green and gold.
Let me bask in the yellow heat
of summer blue skies!!
Let me rise from my roots and become!!"
Ah, if it were only today,
and these grey mists and wet winter drops
would be vanquished and I
could hike the forest floor once more.
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