Right now the tree in my back garden is in it's birth stage, the flowers have arrived in perfect shades of pink that can't be made artificially. Soon all of the petals will be blown away by the wind taking away the beauty, leaving the green behind and it will remain that way until half way through Summer when the apples grow. By Autumn they begin to fall and are ready to be eaten before the cold arrives and the branches become bare. With that, the death of another year this tree has lived has arrived. Each year growing as I grow, from a little child to an adult. It has been here many years before I was born and will most likely be here years after I leave. In a strange way, trees mark our time here. And with time, we change.