He'd loved always his reasons for climbing trees

.

...

And so, he thought, he would need to climb

the tree itself.  He'd climbed trees many times

in play when he was a boy, and many times 

since, when he'd a reason.  He'd loved

always his reasons for climbing trees.

But he'd come now to the age of remembering, 

and he remembered his boyhood fall from an apple tree,

and being brought in to his mother, his wits

dispersed, not knowing where he was,

though where he was was this world still.

If that should happen now, he thought, 

the world he waked up in would not be this one.

The other world is nearer to him now.

But trailing his rope untied as yet to anything

but himself, he climbed up once again and stood 

where only birds and the wind had been before,

and knew it was another world, after all,

that he had climbed up into.  There are

no worlds but other world: the world

of the field mouse, the world of the hawk, 

the world of the beetle, the world of the oak,

the worlds of the unborn, the dead, and all

the heavenly host, and he is alive

in those worlds while living in his own.

Known or unknown, every world exists 

because the others do.

.

The treetops

are another world, smelling of bark,

a stratum of freer air and larger views,

from which he saw the world he'd lived in

all day until now, its intimate geography changed

by his absence and by the height he saw it from.

The sky was a little larger, and all around

the aerial topography of treetops, green and gray,

the ground almost invisible beneath.

He perched there, ungravitied as a bird,

knotting his rope and looking about, worlded

in worlds on worlds, pleased, and unafraid.

.

There are no worlds but other worlds

and all the other worlds are here,

reached or almost reachable by the same

outstretching hand, as he, perched upon 

his high branch, almost imagined flight.

...

~ Wendell Berry, from: 'A Timbered Choir'
.