Many of my more adult poems are personal, but this one isn’t, so I thought I’d shove it on here.
She’d led a quiet life.
Which was not her fault. And there had been
Comfort in the tall solidity of trunk,
You don’t get that from gadding about.
And then the necessity of watching
The impudent thrust
Of young shoots through soil, and of turning
Raw sunlight into food.
She has not had time for thought.
And yet now, as her edges brown and wilt,
As the cold shakes her veins, she wonders
What the world is like, and longs suddenly
To feel fingers of breeze ripple her skin,
And the twirl and swirl of the dance as she
Flies through the air in furious freedom
High, high above houses, borne
On a current that makes her cry
In sudden gusts of joy and pain.
I long, she thinks, to be me.
For weeks she wonders.
She becomes browner, more brittle, dry,
She is shrivelling.
And then one day, she knows
That it is now or never, and she leaps
Into the unknown wind.