The Lone Branch

 

Above the skylight is a branch

I can see it lying on my bed and I often forget it belongs to an oak tree

To me, it is just there, jutting out of the sky which is sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy

I wonder if the sky reflects the branch or the branch the sky or if they reflect each other?

 

I watch the branch through the seasons and it sometimes makes me happy

Sometimes it doesn’t

If a cloud passes as I am watching the branch, I wonder if more will come

Even when it is sunny, I wonder if a cloud might pass by soon

 

The leaves on the branch, the birds flitting in and out in the summer make me happy

Sometimes

The bright Fall colors, too, make me happy. Sometimes

Then the leaves begin to fall and I look forward to a white winter, spring and new beginnings

But sometimes, when I wake up and more leaves have fallen, I feel sad

I feel like it is the end of the branch, of life

Dark clouds in the sky become visible then

 

In the winter the branch is bare and when I first see it covered with snow, I might feel happy

It looks pretty in the dark in the light of the single lamp outside

Then as more snow comes, the branch begins to bend with the weight

I feel afraid it will break soon

I am afraid I will wake up one day and see it has snapped. Gone.

I feel afraid it will become a memory and if I will begin to wonder if it existed at all?

 

The snow begins to melt just as I become certain the branch will break

The weight on the branch eases and it straightens, a little by little

Buds appear on it

Birds sing on it and I glimpse life and laughter, warmth and light

But that doesn’t last long either

Soon the branch is heavy with leaves and as birds sit on it, balancing precariously, I worry it might break

But it can’t break now because other lives depend on it. If it breaks, the birds might get hurt

Clouds and bright skies alternate

Sometimes it rains for weeks in summer and sometimes it is bright in the middle of winter.

Nothing makes sense

 

I wake up every morning and wonder about my branch

If it will be straight or bent

If the sky behind will be dark or light?

I wonder how many clouds might pass

I fear, sometimes, that the snow and the leaves and the birds will break my delicate branch

That I will wake up one day and it will be gone.

 

I am the branch. The sky behind is my life.