My daughter was a willow seed I planted in the ground
but when I fed and watered her she sprouted upside down.
Her tiny feet which formed her trunk pushed upward through the grass
but when she felt the hot, dry sun she stopped and headed back.
"It's cooler underneath," she said. "With lots of room to grow.
I'll multiply beneath the ground. The up-world needn't know."
So she stretched her arms below her head and splayed her fingers wide
then sprouted branches, twigs and leaves and pushed the rocks aside.
Then she grew a tree house with inverted tire swings 
so birds that fly 'round underground could laugh and play and sing. 
Within her leafy curtain she left a hollow place
where resting birds could feel her willow tears upon their face.
So now the ground-birds gather and they sing and laugh and play
and bask beneath the willow tears when they need some time away.
But all this happens underground. The up-world doesn't know
about the laughter, songs and peace that echo down below.
The only clue to all that joy is a stump amid the grass...
a perfect place to think of things to come and others past.
And so I take the thinker's pose with chin on hand on knee
And think about the days to come while I slowly count her rings. 
Someday, when I am planted I'll sprout my ground-bird wings. 
I'll fly to where she's planted and I'll swing upon her swings. 
And then, when I am tired, I'll build my ground-bird nest
in the hollow of the willow tears
   and there I'll take my rest.