The feet will climb;
the knees will shake.
The trunk will sway;
the branches will break
I’ll fall to the soil;
my skin caked with dirt.
My eyes sting with tears;
the lacerations will hurt.
My mother asks why
I choose to climb
And I say, “Well, ma,
the choice isn’t mine.
The other kids said
if I don’t fall from the tree,
then they’ll carry me up
and they will push me.”