Kite to the Moon

I collapse on grass, crashing awake.

Not Spring. Not Winter.

We are in ether.

The moon, voluminous, young and vivid

is in awe of me.

Beguiling February breeze guides—readies me for take-off.

I am going to fly on a kite to the moon.

My kite will float like dandelions being blown,

even the strongest gusts launch those seeds precisely

where they intend.

My kite will propel me through stardust,

past comets, into moon rays.

By midnight, my kite complete: paper, sticks, string.

It will hold me through blizzards and gales.

The moon reaches its hands out to me.

It will grab me in generous embrace.

I will finally feel whole.

I roll out my string.

With only a few dives,

my kite shudders up,

I reach for craters.

The moon vanishes.

My string and paper—my body

shadows hollows and pits, dusty rock momma.

Gone.

I swallowed up glory, energy, that dense body

became my dense body.

I let the kite drop.

Earth more dazzling now—but I belch moon.

I taste moondust.

I am that kite in the breeze.

I am that glorious moon mamma.