Brokenness

When I was eight I fell out of a tree.
I had climbed over knuckles,
through joints and straddling crotches and
made my way to where, from the ground, I was a ghost,
a rustle of leaves that emanated from no figure or form.
Up in the branches,
I was king and queen and jester
ruling over a royal court
that swayed and creaked and bowed at my will.

Early the next morning I summoned the sun,
and it heeded.
Then I beckoned the wind,
and it blew.
I called for a dance
and the birds swooned and swirled circles.
Then I bowed to the branches,
and they bowed lower.
I lowered my head and the tree
swung its arms down and away in a grand gesture.
I bowed as low as I could, in happy deference to my loyal subject,
and I fell.

When I was eight I fell out of a tree.
I broke my arm, broke it good.
It's healed now.
I've seen the X-rays and Doctor Hilden says
that my arm will never break in the same place again,
that I'm even stronger than I was before. I don't believe him.
I won't go back up that tree;
I won't risk it even for kingship
because I'm pretty sure if I fall, that I'll break, again,
in just the same place,
and that I'll never be stronger than I was before the fall.