My Life In Word

Barren of Leaves

He stood like a tree winter had forgotten to finish—
all bone, bark, and bitter silence. Once, perhaps, something green had stirred inside him. A tenderness. A small mercy. But he had starved every soft thing at the root until nothing remained but twisted branches reaching toward a sky that no longer answered.

People mistook his stillness for strength. They rested beneath him, believing he might offer shade, never noticing there were no leaves—nothing to shelter them, nothing to soften the heat. His words fell like dead twigs: sharp, dry, and easily broken. Even love could not live near him. It came hopeful as spring and left shivering.

He blamed the wind for every emptiness.

Yet the truth was carved deep within his rings: he had chosen hardness season after season, closing himself against rain, light, and every hand extended toward him. Now his heart stood exposed—blackened wood inside a hollow trunk.

Barren of leaves,
he cast no shade,
held no nests,
and mourned nothing that flew away.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Erico Marcelino on Unsplash

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