Forty-two times is all I need to reach from here to the moon. Remove the start and finish, and I'm closer to a baboon.

I stand upright to block the view, and I’ll launder loot if trouble’s due

I stroke through hair and paint alike, I clear the path where thorns might strike. I sweep the surface, shape the view, And sometimes tame the wild in you

I am used to save progress, but I am not used to be permanent. You can find me in between trees, but in their final form.

In pools of white, colored rings are seen. The space across, a bridge between.