Now here am I
still floating back to earth,
and lightly so,
for all these words
arrive on little velvet pillows.

I wish I could have
stayed up there
and lingered by your side.
Now it is you who signals me
each day with patient wind.

I feel it gently on my face—
whistling softly in my ears and
lifting scents for my mind's reflection,
redolent of blossoms far away—
and so very long ago that I'd forgotten.

So what am I to do
to reassure you
of my life and time?
How are they now that
I might speak of them?

I have chosen thus
to stand alone
on tall and barren hills—
and daily task myself
to paint the wind with clouds.

Night revolves in stillness,
reaching for the dawn.
Orion, Taurus and the Dogs,
yield to Deneb and the Swan.

And there in deep south rising,
a blood-tinged, pulsing heart,
Antares, stinger and the claws:
celestial works of art.

But now comes an intruder
amid Scorpius’ vivid stars,
for Antares is but mere rival
to the dazzling orb of Mars.

In dreams I've often wandered
and traversed empty space—
through darkest matter I have roamed,
yet yearned for just one place.

Its icy poles I’ve glimpsed from earth—
winds and saffron dust—
iron from exploded suns
gathered there as rust.

I’m sure I’d miss the color green—
long for skies of blue.
But brand new memories I’d espouse
forgetting hues I knew.

Alas, I'm tethered to the earth—
can’t travel into space.
So in twenty, maybe thirty years,
won’t you please go in my place?