A feather fell--

Tumblers twirled slowly
To devolve-
Finger-faces.

Around this world
Of out stretched nails.

They were pure red with mere seconds,
Though tendrils fumbled for periods more.

We could fit in between-
Folder-bindings.

These were concealed
By blue branches--
Because the skies had
Tripped over.

And wishes were skulked
From memory lane.

This--
This where
Only space existed.

I should have worn my stilts.