tree

the girl with the ribbons

the bitter wind does not blow fair:

the saplings grapple with the air.

the lanterns hung do light the way --

large expectations of the age.

​​​

​i was swept by but a small breeze,

and grew sound by fortuity.

how blessed, then, were the twigs who vowed

to stretch toward and graze the clouds.

​

the famished leaves reach for the sky,

yearning to drink the hopes blown by,

and bring back to the grounded seed

barrages of rooted dreams.​