They loved her. Always they sang when she rose. Their petals shone under her gaze, their colours vivid, leaves lush. They preened to her crooning, a feeling, not a sound. So easily they forgot that sometimes she was harsh and unforgiving, beating down on them in relentless waves of blazing agony.

For she was the one who granted them life, who helped them grow large and mighty, to reach victoriously with proud arms.

And she cradled them with warmth when the winter came, soothing their bare branches and withering stems. She would sing them songs of the coming spring, of honey bees that buzzed and butterflies that fluttered to them in droves.

Though she hid when the rains poured down, always she would return when the skies cleared, smiling gently as they dried off under her far-reaching gaze. No matter how long the night, she would melt away its icy touch when morning came

They worshiped her, always reaching towards her. Always they faced her, gazing adoringly, for she was their life giver, their mother.