As the clock turns, so will the shifty wind,
Bringing forth acquaintances to grow with,
While the Sun of a day will boost your growth,
One may not reach surface without downpour,
Now and then clouds will strike, only for gain,
To rise is to wilt, they cannot stand lone,
A golden ray must pair with a clear chute,
A leaf will sprout but live only briefly,
For every green will transform into brown,
While bare skin will leave you vulnerable,
Bark will begin to shield the soft surface,
It eternally feels safe, but its not,
The wind and the life around you destroy,
Struggling to battle internally,
Like sea foam to a sailboats weakened stern,
Shattered as glass beneath a swift hammer,
Bark is devastated once and again,
The branches extend adventurously,
Intertwining as they must, faithfully,
Without steady companions,
Brisk paths for evils entrance are opened,
Birch, oak, and maple, Health, Hope, and Armor,
As the day arrives, the leaves will crumble,
Woodpeckers and quick hummingbirds alike,
Will use your aging limbs at their own will,
They will plummet to the hard endless stage,
Bouncing, splitting, rolling, and crumbling,
The long horrendous day of your demise,
By the word “Timber,” and an edged hatchet,
By detonation, or a lightning bolt,
By the final pulsation of the clock,
Flying high, sinking low, or floating calm,
Gravity clinches your side forever,
As you fall further than ever before.