Sticks and Twigs
Rigid, rusty, stubby twig,
You stand as straight as work-worn fingers.
Bring me your durability
To manage the roughest of scenarios.
Fallen Blossom Branches
Withered, tangled fingertips,
Like hope of new life
Having slipped through your grasp;
Bring me the potential you once held
In your blossoms.
I wish to open their secrets
And see what those fastened buds hide.
Dead Leaves
Small, tattered leaf,
Old and forgotten, I’m sure you must feel.
But left fallen forever, I can see you are not.
So bring me your natural tendencies
To be found again,
And raised back up;
Even to the stricken level
Of man’s direct line of view
Of man’s direct line of view
And not only his peripheral vision.
Pictures via here.
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