Here in the little woods, as I lie back and sigh, I see a fallen pine branch to my right. Its needles are brittle, hanging, dry. The once-smooth bark is lifting like scales, or tiny teeth, breaking by small degrees.

The branch is an arm, or seems to be, draped and limp, weak. Fallen, leaning onto the forsythia, which is yet supple in mid-winter...curved, buoyant even in the bitter cold, its leaves yet hanging on.

And I feel suddenly that this is me with You. Me, leaning in a breathless swoon. You, a curve of strength beneath my soul. So I lean. Lean in. To the comfort of You.

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