Spine of vine

With my spine of the vine

And my fingers of bark

I will hold up my leaf shrine

And the wind I will hark

My little leaves change their colour quite often

They were green, and now they are golden brown

Over the grass, they make a crunchy coffin 

Until the wind picks them up and takes them to town

Wildlife likes to climb the spine of the vine

And go on the occasional swing

Of course, I never really mind

I never even feel so much as a sting

Birds make nest on my fingers of bark

They know that I won't drop them

Holding them up is quite a lark

And my fingers are like their precious gem

My leaf shrine reflects the light

Did you know it doesn't absorb green?

The green gets reflected, all right 

But it's not allowed in. Isn't that mean?

I don't get jealous of other trees

I'm not envious of that nice-smelling pine

Don't judge me for my niceness, please

I'm quite content with my spine of vine.