The Fall

There once was a tree who fell for the wind.

He fell for her touch that sent a rustle through each and every leaf. He fell for her voice, quiet as a whisper; loud as the laughter contained in her breeze. He fell for her stories she told of places she'd been, from as far as across the sea or as near as the next little town. He fell for the taste of her scent; salty, sweet, floral, earthy, feminine, strong.

"Come with me, " she said in Spring as life in his new covering of leaves was emerging anew. But he could not move.

"Come with me," she said in Summer when his foliage was full and he was covered with emerging fruit. But he could not move.

"Come with me," she said in Autumn as his fruit was fully ripe and color brightening from greens to hues of red, yellow, and orange. But he still could not move.

"Come with me," she said when Winter's chill had settled in and his branches were bare. And even yet, he could not move.

She would come to him for years on end. She would whip around his bark; bark weathered by the repetition of endless seasons. His desire to fly with her was strong, but his roots were deep and held him tight.

"Stay with me," he thought. He dared not make this request out loud. He knew he could no more ask this of her than he could uproot himself and fly away with her. She was free; she was the ethereal spirit to his solidity. To try to keep her as his alone was futile and imprisoning.

All he could do was dance in her midst. When she softly whispered, he leaned and swayed. When she blew in with a fury, he would twist his limbs to match. It was all he could do.

And dance, he did, and dance he would do, until the day his roots weaken and wither, his limbs bear no more leaves, his fruit goes bare, and he would fall for her one last time. And carried by her unseen wings, finally fly.