Alone he stands,
Watching the leaves blow in the wind,
The tree, seemingly calm and benign.
Carefully, he tests one branch,
Then another, for strength before he decides
And ties his rope, firmly and decidedly.
He loops the other end round his neck
With a steady hand and a twinkle of madness
In his one, unblinking eye.
He is ready; he throws himself down, down, down,
Until the rope snaps taut and holds,
His feet far from the patient forest floor.
Nine days he hangs, with naught but his own thoughts
Gnashing as teeth inside and out
Until quiet, peace, descends and he hears.
One by one, runespeak whispered;
With careful detail, the stories unfold,
One by one, laid out before him.
And lo, he takes them up-screaming
–he takes them up and falls down, down, down
To the patient forest floor,
And he stands, returns a changed man.
