Forest firs, please, don’t you ever stop
being bed-headed in the sniffling
wind; squeeze out your fur the shower-fed drops
rainbow in the sun & just as tickling.
Both in heat & chill, your bark, it barks
with emboss & bevel, home to so
many worms & birds in many parks,
wake in sun & moon—in both you glow.
But some happy stories become tragic,
for the fir was cut down from its vantage—
disadvantages of too much magic.