One tree trunk paused our walk:
corkscrew-twisty,
as if a tornado had taken and spun it. 

“Yes,” the dendrologist explained:

“more flexible, this tree, better survivor
than its neighbors—for instance
that one on the ground—to gale forces.

“Some of the storms we’ve had may even
have whirled it from the top—
like a top, you know.  Over decades.”

With a finger I traced a spiral up its bark,
all the way back to boyhood.

“Son, you must redeem my insecurities.”

“Dear, you’ll despise the people I despise.”

Our group left that tree, found others. I
swung into the walk, feeling lithe—

by turning, turning, I came round right.

– Russell Rowland