I fling myself aloft and stretch
my limbs like the cross-
sticks of a kite. Sailing weightless,
riding the wind's back,
I don't have to flip-flap
like the mechanical crow.
I prefer the easy arcs of the gull,
its glide and sweep.
Below, neighbors gather in the street.
A dog circles the lawn, yapping.
I know I'm riding
out a scene, archetypal,
old as myth. My analyst
would point to griefs
to bring me down: the death
of my daughter, the death
of the life I meant to live.
Yet in dream after dream--
What bliss!--my mind cleansed
of past and future, I rise above
rooftops, the diminishing world
speechless, staring up at me,
eyes brimming with love.
(c)Jane Ellen Glasser 2007
published in Skipping Stones 2007
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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