Weeping at the Side of a Pond
This won't kill you, the wind screams,
knocking you to the ground.
This won't kill you,
as you fall so hard
you vibrate with the impact.
You'll get up again,
the wind promises,
driving you down,
your head thumping the frozen earth
again
and again
Again, again.
Again
and
again.
You can stand up again,
the wind says.
Just as soon as I stop hitting you.
And even as it's happening,
you're struggling against it.
Being down is the same as being dead;
accepting it, you become part of the wind
stop being part of yourself.
I won't break, you tell yourself, and it's true.
I won't bend, you tell yourself
but you do.
Slammed down, face in the dirt, over and over.
The pain means nothing because it didn't kill you.
That's just how the wind is.
I'm not a willow.
I'm tired--
tired of the wind,
tired of dirt in my face.
I don't know why I keep struggling.
I don't know why I get up again.
I don't know anything, except
when I feel that foot against my chest,
I have to fight back.
I can't just lie there.
I can't let them kill me.
The willow never wonders,
The willow doesn't know it's fighting the wind--
doesn't care.
The willow doesn't even know it's fighting.
But we fight back for the same reason,
though the willow never truly weeps over it.
That's just a name some woman
(going crazy)
gave to a tree she saw living her life.
(no subject)
Date: Wednesday, 18 April 2007 06:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: Wednesday, 18 April 2007 06:33 pm (UTC)