The Botany of Words

A sentence is like a vine
That produces good red wine.
Phrases grow out of roots
And words have shoots
Flowering in the mind.
Words are epiphytes
With jungle overwrites
And the earth is rich and deep
With words that creep.
My hand blackens when I dig
Through a dictionary
Looking for a blood berry.
Deep down I suspect
We are all incorrect,
When in the compost
I find something amiss.
Can we save existence
If the words go extinct?