Softly creep up on an acorn,
Then proudly turn to me and smile,
An oak tree growing from your hand,
You pluck a rose off and sing awhile.

You hold out to me your empty fingers,
Brush gracefully amongst my leaves,
Stripping so gently away each one,
Cradling each green feather as it breathes,

And fold me into your oak branches,
Lift me onehanded to the sky,
Raise your sweet face to the roots,
And smile up like fire as I die.