The Lost Realist

The wind blew strong through her hair,
The branch swaying slowly, to and fro,
And she went up high, so high in the air,
Leaving her worries far behind, so low.

I saw her face, half concealed, glowing
With perfectly harmonious, exuberant glee,
As if saying to me, without even knowing -
I may be tied to this branch, but I am free.