Too fatigued to move.
Her roots, long planted.
Digging just as deep as they’d risen tall.
Moving wouldn’t help her.
But growing would.
For the soul with the deep roots that had finally learned to stand and accept who and where she was.
Growing would be her focus.
Stretching high would be her gain.
Concentrating on how long her neck could lengthen and see over.
Instead of lamenting over the inadequacy of her steps.
She was never meant to be moved.
Placed exactly where she was for a reason.
To enjoy the rising.
To play against the stars.
To change color in her autumn season, and have her slate wiped clean in this cold winter.
To flower again in spring soon coming.
To stand and wave high in summer.
Closer and close to the sun.