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On the Hundred and First Floor She'd had trouble with gravity before- not like this, when she'd first get up as early dew evaporated, stealing drops from slender stems and delicate new blooms. This time, her feet firmly on the ground, suddenly shaken by weightlessness she grabbed the chairback, gripped her desk willing herself to hold fast, endure the motion. It was still morning when she left earth's hold finding she was floating above the streets, but not afraid of the consequence of sky eager to explore this new sensation, serene. Falling was out of the question, of course, she was always well-grounded, luckily the headwinds were gentle at that moment, giving her time to look at the city below. She worried there might be something she should remember, someone she should be thinking about right then, but the beauty of the day washed over her like cool water. There were others floating too, rising into the glory of yellow sun and starlight- a perfect piece of lemon meringue pie, beckoning her to grandma s kitchen, comforting and warm. She smelled vanilla and baby powder, as if holding her little girl to her breast, "Emily" she said, smiling, and then "Jack" as the light took her into its center, ringing a single silver bell. The new season will be delayed but even in November I don't think I can watch any program called "Survivor" both poems C) 2001 by Shann Palmer |
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