Nourish these seeds.
For the nourishment they each receive determines how prepared they'll be as trees.
Prepared young trees.
Told to find their own sunlight, lest their plight ends early. Branches seize.
Drifting, curious breeze.
Sin slips slyly through the forest, spreading guilt varicose under leaves.
Impending Winter freeze.
Even the most upright trunk may lose more leaves than it that shed a few in flirting with that sinful breeze.

Each believes, if it survives the winter freeze, it was of greater stature,
that its leaves, or trunk, or journey up set it apart from brethren battered.
But is a tree ever more a tree?  Or do wriggles and postures not matter if, in the spring, they all are trees?