The only difference between floating
and flying is what you move through--
sensed from my perspective, a journey begun
so far back, far as life,
maybe farther than time’s wings.
In my circle of days, a brain steps sideways
spark by spark, slowly dissolving its own abilities
into a forecast of Dementia soup.
I pray some wholeness of Self will recall
how to float on that lake, lost as a nightless moon,
until flight releases me forward, face up
so I can see what comes next.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022
