how far do bare branches reach?

i sometimes think about whether they remember where they have been.

they reach out to touch the moon.

it must be a long journey,

farther than the wind could ever carry

our human stories.

when the branches return,

they come back changed.

they never come back the same.

their limbs point out,

reaching for something they cannot name.

they reach out toward the stars

and the scattered bits of light.

they stretch into the darkness,

into old memories.

and when morning comes,

they are changed.

never quite the same.

their bare branches have witnessed something sacred,

they have brushed against the divine.