The key is to detach and then to reduce it down to the roots, strong solemn things that grip the body, and smooth out the mind in copse rippled monotony.
It’s the giving in of things and letting out of things until the spine bends the wrong way, then sets, waiting to be snapped back, not at once but continuously creaking at the vertebrae.
One, two, and three.
Society does take its toll on me and I learn that I cannot bend the wrong way as other people before me, trying to detach and reduce down the things that hold one vertically. Not to bow as others do but instead to rise. And thus, I redact the first three lines, for I am a willowy thing swaying in the wind, fraying at the ends to form tattered fingers that claw at the sky as if to say “let me out” for all of eternity… or at least a hundred years or so until the roots rot from under me and the birds lift off again.