The Dancing Tree

Fear me not.

I’m only watching —

the tree,

dancing to the rhythm

of something older than joy.

She moves not for beauty,

not for praise,

but because if she stands still,

she’ll break.

The birds gather in her branches

like memories that refuse to leave.

They fix her hair

with beaks like broken combs,

and laugh —

soft, brittle laughter

that sounds like trying not to cry.

I swear I saw them slip.

I swear I saw them fall,

and still,

they rose again,

teasing each other’s songs

like the world wasn’t ending.

Above her,

the sun pressed its hands through her tangled hair,

and golden light spilled over her shoulders

like a blessing she never asked for.

Like honey from a cracked jar,

it stuck to her skin,

and stayed.

Her branches — once delicate —

have hardened into grace.

Not strength.

Grace.

The kind that only comes

from breaking quietly

and blooming anyway.

And then —

she turned to me.

Not with eyes,

but with silence.

She knew I’d been watching.

And she let me listen.

Her song…

was sorrow.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just the slow, aching melody

of someone who has learned

to dance through the pain

because crying never stopped the sky from falling.

And I saw, then:

The birds weren’t fixing her hair.

They were wiping her tears

with tiny, trembling wings.

Drinking them,

because they knew the taste.

Crying with her,

because they remembered too.

The sun kept brushing her hair —

not to fix it,

but to honor the way it curled

when she broke.

To love it

the way storms do —

not in spite of the mess,

but because of it.