The Key To Success
A leaf has many veins connected by the midrib, similar to the Corolla in flowers connected by the sepal,

A stem has many leaves, connected through it, even the roots in this design- fibrous or tap are in their own way special,

Many stalks form a branch, many branches form a tree but all connect at the base, the trunk,

This happens in every tree, but to rebirth has to separate some chunk,

The message being conveyed by nature is unity is the key to success in this world where every person is a different type of petal,

Land Of The Ganga
In this Garth,  trees are never watered by a soul, but the river Ganges herself,

The trees even after sinking inwards into the ground, continue to bloom in themselves,

Filled with myriad species of undreamt trees and the rarest of all florets in the daintiest of bowers

The most prodigious banyan tree with about three hundred aerial roots is the main

attracter

A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself

my dearest, today you are twenty and five
and my, how lucky we are to be alive
right now, a junction of playful health and slightly wise
loving you keeps me in constant joy and surprise
together we, two intertwined trees being one another's rains
our life a midrib of a leaf yet to grow and spread its veins
with each tear, embrace, and tender kiss
I hope you will always remember this
as long as the nettles remain on the evergreen pine
I am your Nick and you are my Dine

It was the murky stench of forgotten water
hidden somewhere
in the depths of an ivy-winding garden
and the autumn leaves which crunch into the mixing bowl

The rotting flesh of their midrib and veins
binding themselves a new life with the arms
of trees
which had fallen into the reapers puddle
- this is where they come to die.

Their graves, painting the garden Fallow and Umber
lay buried underneath a distant grey sky
the gloom of an English October is at their wake
and the feet of people
trample on their caskets
no remorse
no pause for thought
for nature's feeble skeleton
slipping out of breath

philosophy has but one maxim, given the post-socratics: read slowly; learn to orchestrate: what is lost in punctuation (and recognised as asthma); forget being lost in translation, remember what's lost in punctuation. philosophy is the only prose that measures the reader's speed of scattered eyeing of the page... revel in the poetics of the non-arable for the eyes likened to a withered forest of scarce trees on the deathbed of autumn - i know, missing comma, but you make your mind up when to pause - all this is a playground of your choosing: when to crawl, and when to swing; and when to stitch snout to the plough of unearthing precious truffle mushrooms.*

is this really a poem
of what humanity is,
worth encoding by a single man,
or if, what then, representative,
representing, simply according to a
byway of the fact that man
walked on the moon (applause),
and coerced with holocaust (the cruxifix)
a historical discussion about the midrib...
well, grin the grim
paradox of the lighthouse search
for the ships yet to be shattered
against the rocks, against the reality:
the drowning lives with our lives
assured on the shore for our imagination
to be fed... so that the drowning ones
might make our memory edible with practice
of sing-along of lyrics remembered -
this rather than what's to be new and rejuvenated?