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.