The rooms rise in verticals, connected with stairs, bridges and walkways across the chasm of light. A tree waiting to be climbed. One is never too old to climb a tree.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
-Birches, Robert Frost
