Like a spoiled brat, it always
tries to take over the party—
Look at me—I can twirl
shake my curls, tap-dance and sing!

Ignored, it throws a tantrum,
howling Me! Me! Me!
What a bore!
Yet how charming it can be
when it chooses—garlanding
the fence in white fur—
giving the garden statue
a splendid Cossack hat—
transforming the terrace table
into a giant wedding cake.

Watch me, it whispers all night,
by morning I will have conquered
the forsythia and the firethorn,
and lo, even the pine-trees
will bow down before me.