treetops

Treetops
The eyelet hem of a snow frock
sweeps the twig fingertips
that tickle the belly of the moon.
I tip-toe on the tight rope of the horizon,
trembling someplace
between hills of woods
and sherbet skies
balancing in the silent stratosphere.
Confiding in the wind
taking mouthfuls of clouds to hold
beneath my tongue like that pale sky circus confection.
I vacillate back
between heaven and earth;
nothingness and everything.
A satellite girl lost in orbit