Under firs, spruce and pine
There grows a familiar sign:
A sapling taking root;
Into the blue it tries to shoot;
Unfurling leaves of green,
In the shadows it is seen;
Without making the slightest sound,
Fingers of sunlight caress the ground;
Through many seasons of snow and rain,
The sapling has no means to complain;
It simply sprouts more branches and twigs,
Possibly walnuts, apples, or figs;
It cannot walk
It cannot roam,
So birds and squirrels
Make it their home;
It's no longer a sapling,
Don't you see?
It touches the blue
The magnificent tree.
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