Pythagorean Forest

 The tree trunks are made of squares
 Crowned by triangle's obtuse,
 Equal, isosceles and acute,
 Forking branches through space-time,
 Iterated to oblivion,
 Where the endless twigs bear fruit.
 It's the same structure as spirit,
 Each of us bearing a different
 Cast of angles, sides, reflections,
 Nuanced eccentricity of the square root
 Leading the soul as climber
 To nested apples atop creation,
 Glittering orbs adorning the canopy
 In unique patterns of tribulation.
 The soul climbs, each iteration
 A higher vibration, a new dimension,
 Vast orchestration billowing suspension,
 Cosmic fractals of personification
 Shaping the elevation of trees to perfection,
 Growing incarnations in God's imagination.