I would like things to be not as they can be
But as they were.
Today I'm climbing a tree in another act
Of pure potentiality, but the dialectically
Bright shadow that hangs,
Even at eighty-five feet, is still yours.

It's cold, and my fingers grow numb.
As I speak, voice echoing across and through
The branches, the ice melts
Where my rope rubs,
Bringing the friction I need to forget.
I fear what was just as warm.

I would like to climb forever but
I can't die up here.
It would be far too fulfilling so
I'll just come down.
Give me a minute, please.