Oh sun, how you deceive me with your perception of warmth.
I pity the flowers and trees as they begin to come forth.
Only at the end do they recognize their flaw,
That it's such a mistake to come out before the thaw.
They writhe and they twist in attempts to save their stems.
But they fall and into the earths carpet they blend.
Tis a sad thing, their demise, but how it's a must.
They await a time to rise when the sun is much more just.
In the blink of an eye and the flap of a wing they arise to the occasion as do the birds sing.
They stretch their leaves and let themselves bloom.
Encouraged by warmth and not weary of doom.
They're plucked and they're pulled by admiring passerbys,
Their seeds then released, on the wind they glide.
They land on the ground, unsuspecting as any.
Ready to grow, multiply into many.
They grow their roots, prepare for the seasons.
Gather nutrients to look most pleasing.
They await the sun to rise with it's false sense of depth.
Still I am amazed at how they're completely adept.