Abscission

Leaves fall from growing, not from death;
Nodes, when they break, leave breath.

Skin dries up, tips harden;
Not to die, but to garden.

Crystals run from base
To bark. Not to race;

But to park. Leaves fall
To make space. Young cells

Need the air. Stores
Spring from old scars;

Made-up, crinkled autumn
Unearths spring skin.

Nature cuts away to steer,
Decorates to shear.

Not for the tearing rout:
But so the roots reach out.