Upon high the wood never
Sways, always ridged. Its
Fruits ever waiting for the
Time to fall.

But the wood never sways
Its branchless heights, Its
Tainted bark, its moments
When fruits do fall.

Not the time yet, but fall
They will, selected for they
Are special in nature.
When they descend blood
Spills saturating floors.

The wood never sways, only
When the fruit does fall, where
Life is surrendered. Where that
Moment is quiet as one became
Two and the fruit had fallen
From up high to the *floor.