No Grass In Our Forest

We are the trees; we rock and moan. Our roots, they fill the ground. We like the forest all our own, And want no grass around. Upon the spring we grow the leaves, That shades til day is done, And filters light the grass receives, To keep it from the sun. Then every fall, our leaves will drop, And fall upon the land. The breathing of the grass will stop, While we are left to stand. But then the winter snow will com, And all the leaves will rot. The floor composed of leafy scum, Will suffocate the lot. So if you want to see the grass, Go off into a field. If through our woods, you choose to pass. No grass shall be revealed.