Branches

When we were young we named mountains from our window perch.

I would go there someday, I imagined,

sprouting wings and making my way from the windowsill out,

touching down, toes first, to plant the flag of my world there.

but the trees were smaller then, and we could see distances from between the bedsheets,

now they've grown old, tall and jagged, dangling heavy limbs into that line of sight.

The world seems to have closed in on us this way--

growing as we grow, eclipsing view.

I imagined maturity would tell us who we wanted to become--who we could become.

But now I'm seeing that it only tells us more and more what we cannot be,

offering little direction but that: blocked flightways, a narrow horizon, 

a view of branches.