I tore my heart, and hung it on a twisted bough to dry.
A fool to think, that even crooked limbs
Could heal within that thin and dappled light
Weak and filtered by the taller trees,
Enough to rise straight and proud
Although its shallow roots
In clay and stone were tightly bound...
But I chose that tree, not for its girth,
Its blossom, nor towering majesty but
Because its limbs, its strength, its pride and beauty
Reached out towards me.
