Little helicopter thing,
Swift in motion, blithe of wing,
You spear a blossom for a snack,
Then dart away and hurry back.
How very little the fabled one
Who must always eat--and run.
Come every summer, friend of mine;
Meet me at the trumpet vine.
(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)
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