Wayward in Woodland
A branch grown to far away from the tree
is not for the likes of you, but it must be for me.
Now what's in this space is no mystery to us.
If I'm occupying space, then this space I should trust.
Far reaching, I am, demanding nature's respect.
As twigs break off and fall, on the ground, they collect.
I can't reach the ground, but this pull would suggest
that down is the direction of the path of my quest.
The tree is so far now; too far for me to see,
and where we connect is long forgotten by me.