I remember how yesterday afternoon was a time for the sky to pretend it's a tree...radiant blushing branches with frayed edges, the most delicate passing of blue to rose and the creation of a lavender edge. The sky tree. The rarest of all foliage. Please let me climb it. And then I'll touch just the sliver that's left of my pretty moon. I imagine climbing it would be difficult as there would be more give in each pull. All that fluff would alter my preconceived measurements for footing. It was amusing how it mocked the solid earthly growth in front of it. I can't decide which was more stately: the tree with obvious substance or its foe, the looming mock-tree, tall and vibrant but in a stage of termination. I do fancy the fleeting, like a secret stumbled upon. I can't say my lips are sealed. Everything mutters anyway.
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