Repeating Cycle

Its orange leaves are warm like caramel,

Its rough freckly skin is like a galaxy of stars across the night sky. 

His branches are a labyrinth,

They twist and turn to the stories,

He whispers to me.

His voice is wispy and hoarse,

As if he had yelled into the universe.

His fallen weaker twigs snap,

As if a bone was broken.

He points east towards the morning sun,

Having the first conversation with the sun’s rays.

The dewy grass below,

Worshipping its beauty and grace in the cold, harsh, frosted winters.

With every leaf that’s fallen,

The ground swallows its little brothers and sisters whole,

Repeating the endless cycle again and again.