Born in the cold, a masterpiece of nature, uniquely crafted with no twin, dances gracefully from sky to earth, melting at a touch.

In salad church we bow our heads. ‘Word’ pray: before prayers said.

I reach to skies yet walk not on the ground, In forest halls my silent voice is found. I bear the foliage weight in gentle dance, And cradle nests where feathered minstrels prance. Though part of one, I stretch away in mirth, A hand of wood that grows from rooted birth.

I wear two faces in a single life First a coin of fire, then a globe of flight I carry wishes on the wind I die to multiply, vanish to remain What am I?

Known for its curiosity, And random animosity, Its love language is to be aloof, And ask you for food. Smallest of their cousins, Yet most successful hunters. They bathe in the sun, And sometimes fight for fun.