There are no trees here, just skeletons of laurel and swan, desiccated by salt.
Save yourself, or remain ensnared. Another Dream: I have a reoccurring dream where I am falling.
Falling down from the sky. My own voice is quiet as the ground reaches up to root me. There are men staring at me, waiting for me to stumble over my words, to forget the poem I have worked so hard to memorize.
202 Words Essay for kids on autobiography of a tree
In the moment I am not a tree, not a bird, all I taste is salt as tears run down my face. I am frozen by my salty tears, and I cannot hide myself or my shame. A Dream: In my dream I feel the pull of gravity, the ground rushing towards me and I jerk myself awake. In my dream I feel the wings wait to be summoned, exhorted to sprout and spread. A Memory: I am twenty and I am listening to some blowhard tell me how lucky I am to be with him. I am lucky, oh so lucky, to have his gaze run up and down my body like he is a master violinist and I am a Stradivarius violin.
I am not a violin. I am an upright bass with achingly low notes that echo out from my very core. I am twenty and so very lucky that this master musician is trying to pluck me. All hacked up. Eve cast out of Eden.
Pandora left only with hope. Curious women.
This is the story of the unwrapped box. This is where the light comes in. Curiouser and curiouser fell Alice down the well. I have set my mind to it. To craft pasteboard-titanium-fiberglass-featherful wings.
Affix them along my scapula- those traitorous bones that slump- and find myself aloft on the current of belief where no pools of saltwater dwell. This is a story of transforming. The skeleton becomes a tree, becomes a phoenix, becomes wings upon a current. The phoenix rests back upon a bough and becomes a tree again. This is where the light comes in, where the tree branches claw at the heavens until they crack and let the light tumble forth.
The cracked places are how the light gets in. The slant of light wedges itself into the darkness until it cleaves it clean. A Memory: I set a pen to page and told my story.
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I have stripped myself down to my tree root-tree trunk-tree branch oak heart and listened to the things I had to say. I have let my words be written upon my leaves and let them go, let the wind take them up. Ultralight titanium feathers on a fiberglass frame. I am loved, I am strong. Not done to me, but by me. Not set upon, but picked up and affixed by my own small hands. These wings are my mothers, their arc and wingspan a mirror of hers. She plucked herself, down to the core, to give me all her true stories. There are wings that rest and shelter in the laurel tree. Annie Wenstrup is a writer living in Fairbanks, AK.
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