Green, Green is My Sister’s House by Mary Oliver
Don’t you dare climb that tree or even try, they said, or you will be sent way to the hospital of the very foolish, if not the other one. And I suppose, considering my age, it was fair advice.
But the tree is a sister to me, she lives alone in a green cottage high in the air and I know what would happen, she’d clap her green hands, she’d shake her green hair, she’d welcome me. Truly.
I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It’s impossible not to remember wild and not want to go back. So
if someday you can’t find me you might look into that tree or– of course it’s possible– under it.
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