The branches of my experience,
do not match the branches of your experience.
We are different trees.
The same seeds and the same species
and similar trunks
we all lived in similar places for eight months
But look at our branches all dissimilar,
Easier to see when it's winter where each one is,
  leaves have all gone .

Wind blowing and frosty weather skew the branches
as the cloud covers the sun offering no direction where to go
never returning to where they were,
sometimes breaking becoming sticks
food for insects and playthings for dogs
maybe becoming other branches,

this branch of thought written
on paper that used to be trees
an infinitude of differences
and also similarities
The same when happiest
similar when hopeful
and different when scared.

Nothing is still something,
darkness is still a reason to walk into furniture,
or walk up an imaginary step
when guessing how many are left to climb
the staircase,
there was nothing there
but it still felt nice stepping through the air,
or is that just me?
I seem to have gone off on a tangent somewhere,
But what do you expect?
I am a tree.