Proud in his season, he blossoms towards the sun
Arms spread wide, richly, rightly green
Rough rains rip at him on occasion
He grasps more desperate to his foundation
To feel the soft, warming light he knows he must trudge through the thick chill
Yet, when the keeper of icicles creeps in, leaves release their grip on sunlight
Willing, eager
He falls
Artistic and beautiful, as if practiced
The breeze caresses him down
Soft as silent Satan's secrets
He rests now on thousands of his brothers
And as the cycle goes, he is trodden into the soil
Veins and flesh break apart, fragile as they are
The Earth lays claim to the rotten
And so the cycle repeats, sure as a babe cries for comfort and milk
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