I stare at the canopy of trees, such an odd breathing skyline,
that dwarfs and ignores me, rightfully so, I guess, yet deeply consoles me.

There is the last light of day at the tallest fractal of branch,
fixed on horizons tracing the lie of land unseen from eye-level.

I once climbed a tree as a child, halfway up became a young boy
and I panicked with fear to come down so I climbed steadily up.

Until I was young again I never descended.
I will surely forever hold this grip, this secure balanced stance upon branch.

Looking down, I miss looking up
at cork and bark, wood and branch, leaves and sun.

With one last degree of planet rotation, there is no longer light in the air.
So quietly I slip back to ground.

Chagall 2017

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