Smooth and round,
dyed dark with the surrounding earth,
a seed is waking.
Restless and cramped,
it struggles and cracks,
new green pushing up through the soil.
Rays and beams attack it from all angles,
pushing it up.
Branches and limbs shoot out
and groan as they look up to the sky.
Bark hardens and covers,
layer upon layer is added to the rings
as the being rushes upward,
determined to touch the sky.
The pale blue becomes a want, a desire,
a need, a desperation.
All around are whispers, urging on, speeding up,
rushing it.
Hurry,
they whisper,
you’re almost there…
Branches flying forward, the tree stretches further.
Leaves crumple and fall to the ground,
a golden rainfall littering the roots.
Each one is counting down the hours.
The branches are almost bare,
But still they stretch…
going up… and up…
until at last, the tip of a single limb,
straining…
brushes a breath away from the sky.
Screeching outrage,
trembling violently
against the winter wind, the tree stretches again,
throwing
its weight up into the branch,
willing
it to fly higher this time.
The branch flies up again, strains, stretches…
almost….
The trunk groans as it shifts up,
stretching…
The tip of the branch skims the surface
and falls.
The tree follows it, brought down by its momentum.
A/N: Draft two, not as painful to read as draft one, but still in need of imagery help. Again, help on quality is welcome, but help on imagery gets a fan-fare, a royal feast, a parade, and a juggler along with an imperial welcome as well. Help?
