I surrender to the mystical coniferous tree
As it hovers horizontally in mid-air needling me.
I bow and extend my arm to the Top Terminal Leader
Who curls tightly round my hand like an ardent greeter.
Is it a fine whispering Pine with the longest, supplest shake?
Or is it a loose, rolling Spruce with a sharp, spiny ache?
Could it be a friendly Fir, sir, with a soft, flat make?
Whatever the case,
It’s my own hand that I face
Which is now ink jet black with neon blue nails.
(Don’t be alarmed if I suddenly grow scales.)
“Fear not,” says she or he or whatever it chooses to be,
“We’ve a flying adventure, you’ll gleefully see.”
digital image, Photoshop
original: 1000 x 1000 px