Windblown Tree

Sometimes I feel as windblown as a Cornish tree. Digging my bare heels into the soil as best I can. Feet in the earth, leaning precipitously and yet pliable, springing back in between gusts.

I am a maypole, around which a thousand coloured strings are woven. They bind and twist, keeping me here. A jewel mayhem of stories and happenings, painful, joyful. Ribbon bark.

As spring buds and thaws, I long to run, run, tumble and fly. Skipping sightlessly as Carlos Cateneda's Don Juan, flying on the tips of my bare feet, a thousand yard stare, cool spring air biting my face. I long to run and not look back.

Sometimes there is so much pain around me that I wonder if my heels will hold. I wonder that the universe can treat my loved ones so callously. I long to pull them with me, toes barely skimming the ground, tears of laughter caught by the wind.

I've been buffeted before and I know I will be again. All I can do is keep on bending and springing back, until the wind drops.

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