Some form. Or another.

I believe we are all some form of tree, reaching toward some form of sun,
digging as deep down as possible with some form of root system.
All that this man is is not on the surface, like a tree.
There is far more to us than can be seen, or achieved, or stood beneath.

We are all stacking cells like bricks, burrowing into our eternal selves
like we were digging wells, into the still flowing aquifers we all have
eddying in our core somewhere, eroding washed out circling lines
that record our time, and tell, at least, the length of our stories,
which no other life can cut into and realize until after we die,
expire, like the tree parted from roots, burned by some form of fire.
Leave some ash as dust upon the earth. Some rich white breath
to drift off and become clouds. The body eroded until no trace can be found,
except for some form of still buried root beneath a weeping stump.

I believe death will not be the end of us.
We are like some estranged form of tree.
We have not existed all on the surface.
There is much to Man that can not be seen, or destroyed,
or burned down by simple fire. Every ounce
of every being still exists after it has expired.

In some form.
Or another.

All the tree secrets

All life resembles rhetorical answers to questions about existence.

There are no truer conclusions than what is spoken by the passive voices of trees.

Secrets in endless probing roots which explode under and out where trunk meets ground.

A flattish line of quartz and topsoil like choppy water reflecting light in gleams and flashes, whole oceans of deep furrows glimmering like the side of a fish.

But dirt absorbs the light. Holds on to it. Gives back a dull color or two as thanks.
And keeps the rest.

But water is fast-changing, murky flows grow south and clear and confess awkward truth like ignorant youth.

So soil stays broken. Smaller fragments of a former self.

All parts of it translated to nutrient and sediment.

Ready to give us up all the tree secrets.