There is a tree at the park.
A big tree.
In the summer it feels warm and smooth.
If you climb to the top you can pretend you're ruler of the world.
Or Galileo.
The tree breathes what I breathe.
You scrape your knee on it's branch?
It says sorry.
So don't cuss at it.
It has rough brown skin.
Its cloak is green.
Its feet are buried in the ground.
Some day we will be down there, with the tree's feet.
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