Of Things That Float


Is it only a matter of displacement and mass, gravity the common enemy?
Gravity
is also an
uncommon
friend,
to whom
we owe
a life
and life,
and there’s more to the thought. Visualize balloons, then picture an astronaut.
They
float,
those
luxuriant
balloons,
gently
rising
falling;
the spaceman doing neither, but he’s so high and his rocket has moved him into
orbits
of his
own,
so high
the very
word
turns
silly.
But he’s floating, isn’t he, and I who skim the surface long to dive, recline on sand,
gaze
up at
these
beauties,
rather
than
peering
down, eyes trapped in space. Having sunk, Would I, could I float? How far, deep,
and to
what end?
Never
naked
in air
perhaps,
but my
spirit
glides, surfs waves I only partially imagine, and would wholly experience, though
I drown