When my fingertips are green
It means I’ve died.
But for a tree,
It’s a sign of vibrant life.
Rosy cheeks,
Blood rushing through me.
Red leaves,
Watching them die slowly.
Veins map my body,
Like branches on limbs connected to the trunk.

Searching for the secret of life inside the opposite of the air I breathe.
I watch it soak in the poison that wants to kill me,
Then I feel it return my sacred oxygen to me.
Is there a better place I can search for the truth?
Is there anything that lives longer or grows taller that I can consult?