RF

Tender Green
Leslie McDaniel

He had been outside, playing all day,
as free as the spring time
that frolicked with him

With his child-enthusiasm,
he had raced the invisible wind,
he had spoken puppy language
to his equally enthusiastic beagle,
he had laughed with all his being,
he had hopped along
with his friends, the grasshoppers.

Now he is as still as a statue,
his chubby small hands
wrapped gently
around the thin, fragile branches
of a young birch tree,
barely taller than he is.

Leaves of tender green caress his face.
In his stillness, for the first time, he wonders
Why:
Why are leaves green?

And the child’s clear blue eyes of innocence
look up and meet the gaze
of spring’s clear blue sky of peace.