Seedlings by me, Gipsie Lee

We are made from trees,       So it shouldn't be                So hard to see                    That we are seeds

Like small twisting flags,     Like horns upon a stag,  They call us hag;                   Silk they call rag.

Our earth mother smiles    Our sun father whiles         We roam for miles             Then fit like tiles.

Our place on the floor,         We create a green door    Gifts not a chore                 Life to explore.