The long tendrils reach from the weeping cherry tree
Towards the ground,
Forming curtains of pink flowers and wood,
And under them, the earth gets no light,
Leaving only raw beige clay and rock
Broken up by sparse clumps of yellowed grass
The trunk and thicker branches are a polished silvery white,
Interrupted by scars of brown bark and tree sap,
A lone arm stretches out,
Sagging downwards to form an inverted arc,
Where a sickly little girl rests,
Exhausted by the effort to mount the low hanging limb.
Her matchstick legs dangle down,
Knees scarred from falling out of the tree.
Perched between the highest branches,
She hides her most precious things,
A collection of ink and paper sealed in a weathered ziplock bag,
Resting at eye level for the average adult,
And a Herculean task to reach for a child,
The girl’s treasure stays hidden away,
Opened when she reaches her perch,
Escaping into the fantasy her treasure holds.
Breathing life into the ink on the pages,
Walking alongside the characters as their stories unfold,
Allowing her to become whoever she dreamed she could be,
Here she runs away from her troubles,
Shielded from the outside world,
From her sorrows,
From all the people that hurt her,
From all her painful memories.
High up in the weeping tree.
—Anne Randall