A Leaning Tree

I was a giving tree in my kindergarten play. A red skirt and a green top. My lips were painted red like the apples I gave to the boy. My long hair combed up to make a pretty bun on the top.

I was a giving tree in my kindergarten play. What sad lines I memorized that I had no idea at that time. I wanted to live like the boy, but I played the tree. I didn’t love the boy, but I envied him for taking things from life.

I played a giving tree but I become a leaning tree. In a quiet winter day, the sound of my back breaking will crack the air. Giving in upon heavy snow. The wind will blow caressing my fallen body.

I wanted to be a straight tree growing up and up to the sky. Alone and strong. Making a beautiful ring every year to the eternity. The only type of soaring of the immobile being.

I played a giving tree but I become a leaning tree. My yearning for the sky lost to my longing for the other one. I was afraid of falling, but I couldn’t help leaning to reach; to touch. The wind, the fate, and my heart.