Here And Gone

look up

Look up.

I do this often lately.

I look up,

and I see the impossible depth of the atmosphere

as it stretches impossibly away,

and I am a tiny thing, an infinitessimal thing,

fleeting and small on the ground.

When I was a kid,

I stood in a copse of poplars —

thin, tall things they were,

reaching up and in toward the center of a spread of thick moss —

until the vertigo overtook me

and I had to lie back on the cool earth

while the sky and the trees spun around above me,

leaves chattering like shallow water rushing over stones.

I was nothing and all things,

I was but a tiny piece of the conscious universe,

a selfless whole within a whole.

I was free.

There was no me to pin down anymore.

I could not be found.

I was here and gone.

I look up now

as spring spreads branches wide and opens the sky

and remember being nine and free,

an infinite whole,

and I am free again for moments,

here and gone,

here and gone.


The above poem is a response to

Amy Turn Sharp's call for 5-minute breakfast poems on Fridays during the month of April


I'm Cranky AND Blessed. I Just Thought You Should Know.

My Co-worker