Here is a poem I wrote.
Madronas hung precariously along the bluff in irregular fashion.
They shed their bark like creamy butter, rolling from a knife,
And fall as rotten apples to the ground.
Brittle leaves, once vibrant and glossy,
Crumble like dry, caked mud,
Tumbling into the pile of defecation.
The earth embraced their warmth,
As worms danced in a comical masquerade,
Forming compost around the trunks.
Their lives sustained,
The branches caress the dirt,
And buds sprout from their limbs.
Clad in newly grained burnt-orange bark,
Green leathery leaves emerge,
And white pyramid flowers blossom.
The Madronas have