Love speaks me through the languid branches
of almost naked trees
pickled by the snow,
in the early misty cold mornings.
Steering through the voiceless din.
my mind wanders
and clutches to the last sane thought
trying to figure out
the cartography of healing,
the trail to sanity.
I could faintly hear the laughter hidden in those trees
they do sob sometimes and tell
the stories of survival
those broken branches
and the frail twigs have suffered
the rage of the summer sun
and still, stand tall
to face the wrath of the winter.
Even their dead skeleton in winters
carves out a beautiful silhouette in the night
pleasing to the eyes and soul,
I heal through the broken twigs of these branches
frail yet surviving.