【by Ainsley Ralph】

Beneath the elms, my weary spirits rest.
The crimson poets sigh their sleepy songs,
Cooing barely stirring plumes on their breasts.
Beneath the elms, the sweet apple belongs,
Ripe little miracle nesting in green.
Golden cribs tucked within their dewy shells,
Where the little one squirms and tries to wean.
Beneath the elms, this curious child dwells,
Waiting for the day the apple will fall.
Woozy as its only world turns and turns,
The little larva who was once so small,
Now begins its life with a whole new home to learn.
Beneath the elms, the worm slithers and bends,
Until the robin swoops and brings its end.