Treetops - a new poem

On days when the forest feels too thick,

the leaves too broad, too dense,

and my machete is too heavy to wield,

I climb a ladder rung by rung up to my treehouse.

It is bamboo with openings

east, west, north, and south.

The only things inside are

a low bed with clean white sheets

and a hammock.

It sits right near the top of the tree line,

both protected and with distant views or the canopy.

The air is clean and moves ever so slightly.

I go by myself to think, to rest,

to gain perspective.

Sometimes my stays are long, others times short.

Safe and alone with the bird songs.

It is there that I get my best ideas

and my heartbeat steadies.