avoidingmathwrite

Treehouse dreams tickle my branches as I lean out the doorway, trying to find my roots, avoiding these things you call facts sorted into tables with no legs and too many lines. I wonder why the distribution of living things is usually symmetrical and why sometimes it isn't, watching the stiff-suited men writing glossaries to define me, three words for each letter at least, when really I'm just a prayer, whispered into an envelope and tied to a balloon, given to fate to find a stranger who needs an even stranger friend to email with blackberry pie recipes, licked from the brick lips of a building that was less beautiful when it was standing. Now all that's left is a porch, clinging to the trees on either side that I swear appeared overnight, moved in close from the hill maybe or the valley where limps are always falling like icicles into the streets. I understand what it's like to be so afraid of seeing one more thing collapse, afraid of tripping a friend, of someone at least, on the sidewalk outside the theater, because the pain will shoot from their skinned knee to the base of your mind and stay there, where your aloe fingers can't quite reach and your eyelids twinge open just before you fall asleep for the rest of your life which really isn't so long you can't fit it into a poem or a book of poems or even a photograph if the lighting is perfect and your shutter slows down. I nail boards across my window panes after the hurricane takes my glass away, jealous that I stole the sand from the beaches, but I'm already planning a trip to take more, loading my hot air balloon with empty buckets because I never wanted my driver's license enough to get it and both the tires on my bicycle are flat, so I float above the trees and catch the dreams rising like smoke from make-believe chimneys.