I took a walk to the
meadow where dreams
come from and as the
sun sank down pastel
clouds followed me and
the birds stopped singing
as darkness crashed down
upon us. A fog crawled across
the meadow, clinging to the
surface of this rock and
I find myself clinging to
the branch of a tree, my feet
floating upwards, threatening
to fly me away. And
I want to go, I long to float away.
But my hand stays on the branch.