Tidal blood pulses to chlorophyll fingertips,
As regular as seasons, as regular as days,
Filling pumps expel the soaked water and soil
through semi-porous wires and roots, the living
Bough doesn't notice the machinery limbs.
Nor do the gears, copper wires,
And silicone boards notice
The bark crusting the titanium curve.

Leaves and solar paneled plates angle to the sun,
Its arc followed across the still slow sky.
Automatic systems gather sugar, water, light,
and are noticed only when their flows are interrupted,
I lose fingers to the encroaching cold,
Small calculations are noted, and half of me goes dormant.
Still the gears keep turning, wires glow with use,
Though the light lasts less, the arcs are counted,
And a ring becomes a notch in me.



* Arboreal and Machina are common Latin words that mean Tree and Machine. Used in this case it would be the name, Tree Machine. (i'm pretty sure on the latin, but i could be wrong).