The snow has painted all the birches white,
Their branches are pointing left and right,
North and south and east and west,
Up and down and all the rest.
Those young birches pointing away,
Regarding the world as new all day,
“Look at the clouds and that car over there!
Where did that rabbit run just now?! Where?!
Look, another cloud and it’s really big!
And a small deer thing that likes to dig!”
Every branch and bough is poised and ready,
Looking at the plants and a real-life teddy.
Birches are young, fast and wild,
Of every tree they’re most like a child.
Spruces, however, covered all over,
Branches so thick form the whitest clover,
They are the parent, with their embrace,
Their heavy limbs are the squirellotaur’s maze.
You don’t want to play tag with the rain?
Just come under and its chase is in vain.
You’re never safer than under a spruce,
This goes for robins, a mouse or a moose.
One fine summer I slept in a spruce-shade,
And after that, I’ve never been afraid.