Slight bits of green fur,
Spread upon the brown soil,
Of my garden.
They are unwanted little beasts,
Yet, they are pretty.
The day turns to night,
And the night turns to day.
The little beasts grow their healthy manes-
Their yellow fluffy manes.
Then when they die,
They will send their white cubs,
On the breeze of early autumn,
To find soil of their own.
The next time the warm sun comes ’round,
The little white cubs
Will have manes of their own.
written 2008 / copyrighted 2018 The Tiger Writer
