for Tim

Who arrived on goatwinds eating licorice
Who peered out from under the tree
grown out from the top of their heads

Who vacillated from insubstantiality
to being taken out of context
like a drawing propped carefully 
alongside a statuette

One is inanimate, ready to burst free
while the other has been released
in a sinewy, coiled escape

Just waiting for the rain
that will help grow the tree
inside their brain to the wide open blue
to get lost in that terrain again

At what cost does freedom become moot
when all dreams get covered in soot?

So shake the dust off the motes in your eye
and peering out from under your branch
follow the wind, my brother, my friend


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