From beneath the leaves and twigs of the year gone by they come. Heralded by the fleeting snows and rising sun, nourished by rain and breeze alike, they emerge from the ground below.
Reaching into the earth to embrace their only home with tendrils of delicate white, they peek up to see the sky with a green both soft and lush. It is to that sky that they will stretch as they have since they began, and as they will until their deaths.
The shoot comes forth to sprout its leaves, as though stretching from its first time standing. With each coming rain and every passing of day and night, it stretches ever more to the sky and its own horizons.
From stem to trunk, from leaf to branch, it moves in place at its own pace. Not concerned at all with time or the movement which carries on about it. Oblivious to the world it grows, aiming always for the sky.
It stretches further to the side, catching light and reaching for its neighbors. All the while its roots have grown both long and broad in its ever increasing embrace of the world which holds it up.
Come winter its leaves will fade and vanish from its form, falling down to the ground below, to cover with twigs and bark, the dirt which sits below. They will be below a blanket of snow, frozen as those without fire or fur.
But the thaw will come again, and the snows will retreat to the rising sun. And nourished by rain and breeze alike, a spot of green will sprout its delicate tendrils, and look out at the world above.