That Avocado Tree at the End

of the backyard
unfolds —
a silent hymn of coherence.
Each branch extends,
not erratically,
but as a gesture of reason,
leaves whispering green syllables
into the wind’s ear.

Light pirouettes on its surface,
reflected not at random,
but in patterns etched by cosmos’ hand —
a geometry of veins,
a symphony of hues,
woven from sun, soil, and rain,
and the quiet logic in its genes.

Its bark, rough against my palm,
tells a story —
not of moments paused,
but of becoming:
a pulse of sap,
a choice to climb
toward sky
and shun the ground.

And I, standing here,
am no passive guest.
Light streams through my eyes,
textures trace themselves
across my skin,
scents spiral into lungs —
the tree enters me,
not in pieces,
but as whole.

My mind, mirroring its patterns,
gathers and aligns —
not by will,
but by the shared rhythm
of logos’ design.

The tree breathes me
as I breathe it,
our edges blurring
in the rational weave
of what is real.

This is no static form.
Its roots sip logic from the earth;
its fruits hang,
perfectly poised,
an offering shaped
by light’s command.

And I,
a fractal of this truth,
reach for understanding —
a smaller system
nested within
the self-organizing whole.

In its stillness,
the tree moves;
in my motion,
I am still.

This is logos:
not abstraction,
but the pulse beneath
the visible,
the hidden law
that binds and grows
what perceives
and what unfolds
into one.