Without reason.

The moon did fall into the sky that day.

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A breeze.

There is lust in the eyes of the seasons as each take their turn. The rolling fields of green to turn to purest white in time, and then in turn to baron brown to sprout in green again.

The blaze.

Under stars of frozen light, careless to dark beneath them. Subject to winds which chill the bone and keep any warmth at bay. One huddles with who and what they have to escape the bite of ice.

The shoots.

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.