I herd, you cut down my green ears to stumps. I’ll never forget. Playing brass is my front. Where I stomp, I parade. Head to tail.Tail to trunk. I like salad, yes tuskin’. There’s a bird on my rump.

A myth that never burns, Dies and returns, Rising from the contents of urns.

When April rains fall in silver streams, I wake from earth in coloured dreams. From quiet roots I bloom and grow, I rise above the rains that flow.

The curtain rises on a dance of showers and blooms, where fools find their stage, and the skies play a tune of renewal.

I'm the skin of a peach or the head of a dandelion. What am I, that also describes the fur of a pup or a little stuffed lion?