Leaves fall from growing, not from death;

Nodes, when they break, leave breath.


Skin dries up, tips harden;

Not to die, but to garden.


Crystals run from base

To bark. Not to race;


But to park. Leaves fall

To make space. Young cells


Need the air. Stores

Spring from old scars;


Made-up, crinkled autumn

Unearths spring skin.


Nature cuts away to steer,

Decorates to shear.


Not for the tearing rout:

But so the roots reach out.