These branches.
These charcoaled and knotted branches.
Reaching for a grip upon something that my
Frost-bitten mind can't begin to comprehend.
Their upward roots point millions of fingers
At the very same thing.
Even the spotted few leaves, refusing to let go-
Until they notice me.
And mockingly fly, again, pointed to what,
I don't know.
But I'll sit until I do.
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