Brindille

Its remnant continues with uncertain paths
After casting away by bird or by wind or by rain
To sustain in the faith of a medium
To be no longer fruitful
With no longer living vines
With no resolute drift
Now with flawed direction
With the certainty of a compass without a needle

The twig flows with depleting ease
No longer steadfast
The twig finds great regret
At the mark of the sought end
Giving in to even the water
Quickly sinking under darkness
Shrouded by decisive canopy
Gone before dusk

With no ashes nor remnants
No fruits nor pollen
No green nor golden fronds
The twig now finds no refuge of a tree
Less the rock-strewn floor is merciful
or divinity was of coveted nature
Now knowing it pointless to have left
Turned flaccid by humble waters
Broken by pain from wind