An umbilical of steel and rubber
connects me to the mothership,
our eyrie in this velvet void.
On my horizon,
the sapphire marble of home
hangs fragile within her ozone shell,
mantled by nebulous cloud.
Once, below, in the emerald fields of my childhood,
I sought out cloud shapes — a boot, a horse.
Small objects from my then-known world.
Now, above, too vast for mundanities,
cloud continents spread,
shred into archipelagos.
Glaciers ride atmospheric waves and
snow forests tendril mountain gorges.
Gravity, planetside, taken for granted,
let me skip, run, jump, fall.
You cannot fall in space.
A graceless spin,
arms and legs awkwardly akimbo,
balletic as a ragdoll thrown in slow motion.
An endless tumble
against the endless dark.
Or Earth, capturing me,
would draw me back towards her
and make of me a shooting star
to briefly grace her heavens.
Another umbilical, invisible,
tethers me to this mother Earth,
connecting me to all life on her.
Connecting me to you.
She is our living ship.
We are in space.
More poetry by Alex Kilcannon