She is a Tree

She is a tree -

not planted, but rooted,

in truths buried deep beneath the surface.

In the ache of old wounds,

the echo of every storm she has stood through.

She does not sway easily.

She has learned the language of stillness.

Spring came like a soft apology -

a gentle thaw after long silence.

It taught her how to open again,

to bloom without needing permission.

Not all beginnings feel like fireworks.

Some arrive quietly, like breath returning.

Summer was her fire.

She stood tall,

draped in full green defiance,

drinking in the light like it was proof she survived.

There was warmth. Laughter.

A moment of rest in the sun.

She learned that joy is also part of the journey.

But fall -

fall is where her soul speaks loudest.

Her leaves do not simply fall;

they transform.

They ignite - crimson, copper, gold -

one final flare of beauty before surrender.

Each one a memory,

a version of herself she no longer needs.

She lets them go with grace,

not grief.

Because sometimes,

death is not an ending, but a cleansing;

a sacred kind of release.

Sometimes, death can be such a beautiful occurrence.

And when winter comes,

she stands bare -

but never hollow.

There is life inside her

the world cannot yet see.

Roots deepening.

Dreams steeping in quiet.

She is still becoming.

She is not afraid to be stripped down.

Not afraid to stand in the in-between -

the raw, the quiet, the unknown.

She has learned

that becoming is not a single bloom,

but a thousand tiny rebirths

disguised as ordinary days.

She is a tree.

She doesn’t chase the seasons -

she holds space for each of them.

And in doing so,

she becomes a forest

within herself.