Reed and oak

I asked my child beneath a tree:

which one would you rather be,

a small slim reed or a strong oak tree?

Would you be the tree if the wind blows

that stands firm on the ground on which it grows

but maybe falls and maybe fails

if that wind turns out to be a gale?

Or would you be the soft green reed

that’s prepared to give and prepared to bend

and survives that gale to stand again?

She said no, neither one of those

I want to be the wind

I want to be the wind.

Let them go

like a kite on a string in your hand

like a castle you’ve built in the sand

like a river finding its way down to the sea

it’s you they will bend, as they shake free.

They will only return to this same ground

to show you all the things they have found

even as you’re holding them you know

you will let them go. 

And this child,

who no one on earth loves more than me

who doesn’t want to be a bending reed or a mighty tree

is gathering her sureness like a poem

is finding her own way home.

Oh, my heart’s true clean north -

my girl who wants to shake the branches of the tree

let me open this small window and set you free

be the wind that wakes and heartens me

come back one day and blow through me

blow through me.