Histories and Hysteresis

Crying.

A tree in a city's winter,
stripped of its cover...
...the foliage obscures the intents,
wrong turns and scars.

In winter, the leaves wither to reveal the emotional supports. Only then can we appreciate the structure of our sense of emptiness, pretense and insecurities.

Old proclivities and bad memories: histories and hysteresis.
Everyone deserves a private audience with their comfortable flaws.

Confused branchings align to a moving sun. We adjust to our daily contradictions and oxymorons, spreading our attention thinly over ill-defined expectations.

Each new branch walks in air, yet thinning all the time. Its tip turns back to find a shrinking trunk accompanied by a growing uncertainty. The branch adds what it can to augment the trunk, while the trunk teaches the branch its limits.

Exposed and weak, we stand against uncaring traffic, looking at the next naked tree, wondering if our apprehensions meet.

Toughen your bark; wait for the certain spring. Then again, you may hide your branches in secret hope that you will weary of the game if the final winter does not take you.