Another poem

This also is one that I wrote a while back for school, as an exercise of writing in iambic tetrameter.

Seasons of a tree

Beneath the tree there lies a mound
Of golden leaves, all on the ground
The wind blows more down with his breath,
And sends them down to certain death.

The winter comes, as does the cold
The trees, their arms stretch out so bold
The sky of winter to defy
On coming spring do they rely.

With spring comes leaves, and buds, and sun
The birds do chirp, the kids do run
The trees are born again to live,
Their shade and beauty to us give.