Dangling tresses from a sturdy oak tree.
Grayish green moss leaning down,
Down, trying to touch the ground.
Fingers reaching out to caress my face,
I’m eager for their touch,
Teasing, beckoning me to climb high,
High into the branches.
To climb high where you make your home,
Amid the safety and security of what you know and believe.
I’m eager to try, eager to please, eager to rise up for you.
But the trunk is so large,
What is sturdy for you is impossible for me,
Impossible to grasp, impossible to climb.
Slipping down the trunk,
Falling in a heap at the base,
Frustrated, wanting, I look up at your fingers still motioning to me