Haiku; Trees and Mothers

What am I? 

A doormat for your shoes? 

Cobblestone for your steps? 

Am I meant for nothing more 

than a book, open pages, 

assigned by your english professor, 

i hear your battle cry

winning.

i feel the tremors

loss.

they think delicate,

but snowflakes don’t shatter

bulletproof glass?

they think delicate

draw.