We fool ourselves.
Believe ourselves to be attached fast
to the leaf.
But shaking in the wind,
as blossoms on the branch;
buffeted enough,
we find ourselves,
airborne.

We fool ourselves.
That it won’t be our turn.
Comforting others,
measuring out
our careful wisdom.
We forget there will be a day,
we will need,
our own medicine.

But we all have our days,
in the sun,
when we blossom, and bloom.
While the days in the wind,
we resist and turn from;
though they come
unrelenting,
to everyone.

So I fool myself.
Believe myself secure,
and steadfast.
Living tree, roots deep in the ground.
And I am: deeply rooted,
and aware of my source.
Yet the wind, with a life of its own,
still abounds.

But what if I said ‘come’?
Come wind, what may.
Lift my blossoms, torn off my limbs,
give them breath, and uplift.
Show them the view
from up high.
Show them there’s more ahead,
than what I can see, right now.

And that my security,
my security lies not,
in holding on, till my petals are damp,
and torn.
But in letting go,
in finding freedom in the uncertainty,
trusting in the life source
of all things.

Ana Lisa De Jong