Chosen

I choose the light and the dark,
the moon in its quiet ascent.
I choose the sun spilling gold through willow branches,
the wind bending them with a touch so gentle
it must surely be love.

And the world chooses me.

To be the willow, chosen by the wind.

Father, I chose you.
Again
and again,
I chose you.

And sometimes,
for a moment,
it seemed as if you chose me.

And I became a kite,
lifted high on the wind,
looking down on the little willow below.

Only to have the wind die,
and drift slowly down,
alone.

The world does not choose me
because I need it.
It chooses me because I am.

Like the seed stretching its roots into the dark,
because it is its nature
to rise,
to reach,
to choose the sky.

So much in this world chooses me
because I am.

And so,
I cannot say
it is of no consequence.

Perhaps
choosing myself was the journey.

Only that
the willow keeps growing
whether the wind comes
or not.

And when it does,
it bends,
not from need,
but from dancing with the wind.

– Jenny Griffo