Between the treetops time has curves
Where decades twine like blackbird’s songs,
Where centuries are interlaced,
And pasts are born from future space.
To work the weave you sway with trees,
And wind your mind up through the leaves.
Your neurons switch from time through time,
Through interlinking rings which bind.
In them you’ll live what might have been,
And twist back out through what is not:
All knowledge of the lives and deaths,
Are hanging in the forest’s breaths.
The chaos of this heavy air
Creates the mirage we see there.