There is a girl that sways in the trees.
One that doesn’t catch the breeze.
It doesn't act as any other branch would,
Made naught of any wood that could.
It leans and slumps from the tree,
“Do you not envy me?”
“Why would I?” I ask.
“I see the sky” she gasps.
“But I do not move with it” I say.
“But you can” she sways.
“So do you not envy me?”
“Yes” I reply,
“Can I see the sky?”
“I am held by the same shape you shall be, for we all are. You must take it, for do you not envy me?”
“But how, you are so high and I so low, what seeds must I sow?”
“Feel more than the wind” she said.
I caught it, upon my head.
My temple, now red.
I felt the wind again, colder now.
“I wish to hide” I said, bolder now.
“Then hide with me traveler and we shall reach the heavens together, hung by branches reaching.”
She falls, screeching.
From her perch,
as I lurch,
Her face so cold, but fair.
I reach for her knotted hair,
strung high as a mast
and I no longer feel the breeze.