The Arborist (rewrite)

Ascend on mechanical limbs,or braided vine. As on orders you soar through electric fields. Carving forms from my greens and browns, And exiling the dead. But not death.... Death does not become me, For life you nurture along prosperous paths, Preserving my limbs ever reaching and eclipsing their earthly surrounds. An oath made, a promise kept, allows the new to thrive. We shall meet again, a year or so from now, Not as friends nor enemies, but partners in our mortal dance, 'Till ones death or demise. For this is the way of the arborist and me (tree)