The roots make the branches grow, and the branched leaves nourish the roots for growing. The growing goes back and forth from branch to root, root to branch, until this growing passes beyond our limited visions. 

We may say that the root is first, or the green spring, yet we cannot be sure how each seed will burst into life. And if, beyond our vision, the roots reach hell, only then can the high branches reach heaven. If our branches, reaching, touch heaven, the same reaching touches hell with our roots.

Cheers to nothing

I take an empty cup of kindness. Expectantly.
ought I receive for my aesthetic sacrifice?
The poem bereft of words

A dry, soulless,
immaculate uncertainty,

gossamer tulip wings limping, prancing,
(no! no!)
(Not verbs, we want nouns! Decorative, ornamental nouns! And don't say that ugly "adjective!")

on the shore she waits, 
ear to the Earth
A sensitivity to butterfly effects,
and beauty returns to her in a bottle from the sea,
but it was only a grocery list.