“So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May not fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.”
This is the story of a wild girl
With skinned knees and tangled hair
Inside her there dwelt a pearl
She didn’t know was there
It had begun as a lump of coal
And through pressure began to take shape
It would become lovely to behold
She knew nothing of her fate
The pressure came in the form of sorrow
She learned much of loneliness and pain
Nights she prayed for no tomorrow
Seeking refuge in the rain
She embraced every storm
Never asked “why me?”
and so the a small pearl took form
Only a shadow of what it would be
She took solace in the branches of trees
And the worlds within a book
Wrapped in a cocoon no one could see
Her mind was a haven impossible to hook
Years passed and the storms gave their best
A woman has grown from that little girl
She’s still in the trees, they are her rest
A smile in her eyes, for she knows of the pearl.
(Quote: Robert Frost: Birches)