The self sits at the tip of the leaf.
Bathed in light, and supported it thrives.
But it’s sensitive, and fragile.
States, like a breeze push it back up the stem,
to where there are traits that rest upon identity.
They are not alone, so they are stronger.
The self projected and reflected, goes no further.
The branch supports the hero, whereby they may lead the group.
Branches that are close to the light may support healthy individuals, until another grows stronger and reaches for the light.
Ever growing, branches live and die like teams, and nations through time.
The strong continue to reach for the light, while the content wither, and fall.
Like the seasons, time dictates, and the culture recedes up the branch to the trunk to be renewed.
Just as the leaves fall, poorly formed selves drop to the ground as they reach for the sky.
Others will hold on tightly, and hide in the trunk until spring.
Some are still resting on the ground as seeds, and others have yet to be dreamed.
But what of the sun the self asks?
I am it reflects back.
“I am?” The self asks?