The wind whipped around the bend
today, though it seldom does,
and took a trip right back to
me, and carried me to where I was.
I planted my roots and grew
beneath the shaded glen,
and I hid myself away
from all the garden men.
They had their tools, their fiendish grins,
they knew their mark was true,
they cut and hacked, sawed and pulled,
but if they only knew.
My severed roots held a map, I knew it well
I would come back soon,
and next thing you know, I’ll return
and all the men will swoon.