The branch and the blow

The stick was not there.

The storm or a kid moved it away.

Or a slightly wind.

Or maybe all the effects altogether.

Or I forgot in which tree and each branch.

Or I missed the park.

Or even the park never existed in the first place.

All was part of my obsessive way to build, some kind of meaning out of this deaf society.

Something to grasp in the middle of the storm.

Something to stick while everything is vanishing slowly in the grains of time.

The grip slowly fades.. the twig once part of a tree sets its own path.. then a toy in a dream... now a shapeless memory transmuted in words.