A simple tree swaying in the wind,
A blade of grass blowing in the breeze,
Each awaiting something strange.
From the shadows the moon does rise,
Casting its silver light dancing through the skies,
Spewing forth nights new life,
Changing the breath,
Taking the wind.
The silve shifts,
From red to blue,
Taking the grass somewhere new.
Another turn to the trees,
The wind takes root,
The leaves grow trees.
One last time the light takes off,
Trailing behind it the lucid moon,
To another place?
We shall see soon.
Back to the leaves,
Trees on their tips,
All starting to wilt,
Starting to dip.
To the blad blades of grass,
Beneath the path,
Grows upside down,
Deep within the moles hovel.
A leaf silently tumbles,
Crashing to the ground,
The tree attached not making a sound.
Deep in the hole,
The grass continues to grow,
The world above it blanketed with snow.
The trees take root,
The leaves are gone,
A watery walkway moves along.
Through the mole the grass does grow,
Ever increasing the former hole,
Inching its way to the world of snow.
The moon does set,
The light grows dim,
Everything goes back to the place it had once been.