Emily, at three,
drew a picture of a tree
with an elevator.
Such trees I've known,
standing in my life forest,
moving me quickly to the top
to vistas new to me.
I remember the heady excitement
of being close,
breathless,
then the goneness
at coming down.
I've wandered,
looking for more trees like that;
stood expectantly at painted doors,
Now and then I've entered one
only to fall into emptiness,
leaving me bruised and disillusioned.
But I dream on,
and cherish memories
of rides to the top.