I am the vine.
You are the branches.
In an abstract picture there is a truth seeking line.
Barely glimpsed from mud filled trenches.

In life’s turmoil we are not alone.
We are just a twig, a leaf on a mighty oak.
We sway in the wind afraid of its harsh tune.
Oh well, that great tree will still be there when we croak.

Fluttering we fall to the ground.
We lie there unregarded and rot.
But a little of us survives which is sound.
So we become part of something new, that is our lot.

But once we were part of some life giving force.
And one day soon we will be again of course.