Above
my head is a many armed tree
Having
part of its roots up in the air ---
They
dangle down like fine strings, or skeins
Of
wool, drooping, moving, gently in the breeze
Out
from the undersides of great branches
They
hang --- and take in what they need ---
Purely
from the air --- as I --- . . . . . .
A
wisp of wind, a light zephyr touched the tree
Looking
up, one leaf had caught before it fell
So
small --- so insignificant --- but I saw . . .
As
a dead dry leaf, hanging by a cobweb thread
Twirls,
and spins its tale of turning in the breeze
I,
too, had decided, to let go of whether that this
Or
that --- was right --- or not ---
The
very airs were breathing Life all around!
And
would not, I, the dead thing ---
Let
the moving air in through my very pores
Let
the airs above my head twirl me round
Face
me, wherever It will, to learn to see
What
It would have me see, and not as I will
*
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