When you leave, will the grass and dirt remain, unrestrained by the plough that churns them? Will they climb towards the sky, or become homes for birds and squirrels? With time, the houses will be granted decomposition, and feed the flowers and vines that decorate their collapsed frames—will they run wild through the streets and overtake the skyscrapers and cable lines that once crushed them?

But I wonder, will I follow when you leave?

You will become unbounded, as free to breathe as the trees you came from. You are not the axe you hold, but the roots you leave behind; no longer tamed by iron and hand, but flying freely above the clouds, warmed by the sun’s gentle rays.

But what will become of me?