What happens at the bottom of it if I am not dead yet

It gets as warm as leaves growing on the back of the head.

A leaf leaves if it has taken its time.

I am left, rooted.

A new surface which emerges from the right

Goes back down all the way round,

At first, it takes a year

But then it comes through any which season

The weather trying to make me loveable,

But culpable me to not always meaning it

Their mistake, of course.

I might forest when it rains.

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