​You’re hanging over the earth, 

just like you wanted.

From here, you could crush continents

with your fingers

​

but you’re taller, 

your vertebrae have stretched, 

and the spacesuit is squeezing your spine.

The far-out stars blinded your infant eyes, 

and now

it’s just black, buzzing radio static 

swarming you,

choking you

as you orbit alone.

 

Yet, you’re growing, 

this you know, 

like the green trees

beneath your feet

 

Though often forgotten,

plants are always moving.

You remember how branches

would bend to streetlamps,

and sway on summer’s day, searching 

for something that no one has ever seen.

​

So, turn your face to the shimmering sun,

let it kiss your cheeks and then fall, 

fall like a comet beginning 

to kindle. 

The plants are reaching upwards

towards your light, 

aching for an embrace.