she dances with the wind, not understanding
any of my cares, and yet - she cares
for all of them. I tell her "I deserve better than this
old abyss again and again."
and I am tired enough for an entire forest, but
old pine, mother of wings, stands still and
nurtures many things (me being the smallest of them, only
a whisper of a girl), and in whispers I learn
how to nurture something
not fire or dark, something like roots
or strong rainstorms
or the slow patience, the unafraid confidence that lets her stand tall
and be touched by nothing but wind
and sunshine and all the good things,
none of them human, none of them harm.
one day, I will stand
as tall as her, impossible
to take down. knowing
the secret art of growth,
of peace, of waiting for winter
and then summer again while a life passes by.
I sit on these steps and tell a tree
"I deserve better than this."
"I have seen this dark and I recognise
its heavy warm arms and I am not going
back down there." she understands.
lets me r