Withering is the branch
it has wound itself up and is choking itself.
It is the source of its demise, its misery.
It does not know what the other branches are
It has no eyes to see, no mind to think
It is surrounded by things that are not light.
But its heart hopes
Its heart searches for the things it does not understand
it is a simple branch
lost in the thickness of its home.
It desires the light, but is hindered by the dark
It desires warmth, but is in the cool of the shade.
When does the sun come? when does the warmth come?
It comes when the gardener sees it foolishness,
he trims back the dead and reveals the living.
It gently leads the branch from entanglement
It helps it to unfurl its leaves and see the greatness of it all
It sounds so simple
but time moves slow
to unfurl it must grow at a snails pace
but it does not grow alone.