• Swinging my legs, I sway -
    like the meadow flowers
    before the wind.
    I lean into the motion,
    slicing the air,
    faster than any metronome
    has kept time.
    Soon, I'm walking
    on that dome some call
    "atmosphere,"
    peering at the shrugging seas,
    watching the tiptoeing land.
    Descending, sliding down the railing
    of cloudy steps,
    past the fledgling's laughter.
    I smile and laugh with them.
    Swaying and leaning once more
    on my childhood swing.