My Children

I'm tired now.
The foliage which gave me energy is all gone.
I have allowed it to turn brown, let the cold wind whip it away from me.
There is just one last task for me before I can sleep.
I must tend to my children.

Their crib is ripe and red.
Unlike the walking ones I have no folklore about storks.
My children are delivered by birds in a more literal and less savoury way.
They must fly soon.

Wind gusts past me.
It tugs at my fruit and their precious cargo.
Just one hungry bird is all I need.
Then my work will be done.

Once my children are on their way I can rest for a season.
I can withdraw into my roots and trunk.
Use my flagging energy to keep myself alive.
Ready for spring.