Air tickled with the movement

of leaves upon their branches

I sit still as the world blows by

in its own warm breath

I watch the sky which is never

really there

the air held in like a bubble

a sphere a dome

a mouth holding the

warmth of the sun like brandy

on a tongue

the treetops forming one tongue

leaves and branches together

going off into the distance

pushing up against the sky

as the roof of a mouth

I sit still on the tongue of

this world

as one word ready

to be spoken.