adventures in dysthymia

Friday, September 26, 2008


As the branch upon the tree
so love may wither, unattended,
and broken by the tempest wind
or by its own weight, it falls.

What use then is such a stick,
but to return into the soil
or serve a bonfire, come the chill
of the darker longer nights?

Yet at times a branch left lying
takes root, and growing, reaches sunward,
to freely proffer sweeter fruit
than it ever might before.

Stephen Brooke ©2008

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