I walk up to the twisted tree. I feel small and unimportant under the canopy of its leaves. Protected and shaded, I am the tree's.
Admiring it's beauty, I interrogate; begging, I cry at the base of it's trunk. Day after day, I come with worries, fears, hopes, and questions to the quiet tree. Then I pause, waiting, my mind drifts. I search for a flower to blossom from the cold ground, or a voice to boom from a rainy cloud to alleviate the dreadfullness of my humanity; oh wise quiet tree. Patience is not my strong suit. With no success, I walk away in frustration.
Fall comes; winter is on it's way. I can sense an end to my days under the tree as my frustration eradicates any desire to approach it, especially during the cold, dreary days ahead.
Winter takes hold, and all my feelings are trapped. I have no where to dispense, no where to go. Concealed beneath a smile, everything I've done, everything I've said, and everything I feel deteriorates my insides as I fill my life with the temporary, promising forever.
To the blind, the twisted tree fades into the background on these winter days, dormant and producing nothing useful. Yet it is said, the tree is just waiting for the day it is greeted again by the rising sun wakening from its nightlong slumber; then may the blinded once again see and finally be set free. Will spring come again?
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