Should the leaves resent the tree
its time for roots; days of dark,
they’d wither before they bud.
Should the roots envy of leaves
strangle sap from branch and bark?
They will rot and turn to mud.
Faithful to the earth it grows,
attendant on heaven’s lure.
I am a windmill, she crows
To your quixotic ‘venture
The Goddess has no rival.
Her vine climbs as a spiral.
Why then do mortal women
Fear the dizzy hairpin turn?