In the summer, like a canopy,

they droop above us.

Soft green fills their limbs like a tent or skin.

And they wave about as if dancing in the wind.

In the Winter, like a skeleton,

they weep before us.

Dropping their icicles like tears of the eyes,

Limbs are bare and their creaks sound like cries,

Wishing for Spring to bloom their lives.

In their hollow parts, lies the bees,

Why, what are they, but beautiful trees?