All the Days Were Nights

More about All the Days Were Nights

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

A tree, in winter, stands out against the snow; no one is surprised by a tree

in winter. In summer it is different; the surprise of a tree then, and that is when people stop beneath the branches.
Without the leaves the limbs are like long fingers, stretched out for something—but what?
A bird—but where?

The tree is waiting, but for what?

Without the leaves, in summer, people walk on and never know.
AKSHR