Drift by Ada Limón
Some blur of a bird makes a kid-like laugh out of sea air and we, heart-hardy, kick a crack-up back at it like the opposite of throwing stones. Like releasing tiny hot air balloons up, moon-bound and hell-bent on defying the usual gravity of this spin. Sky, here, we toss a bone into your open endlessness, the sound of crackle, a timbre of animal-warmth. Oh let us be a bird flying wholly for the sake of flying, to be that breath- machine that even the anchored earth-bound wavers want to root for, want to look up and say, Rally, rally, win.
… if no
one oversleeps for sadness, or if
they do, someone — it's a network
better than any antiquated phone tree —
some appointed friend lies atop the quilt,
beside the sleeper and waits, matching
their inhales and exhales,
and no one wakes alone.
So far away and so down
here, we're all rooting for you,
To the Astronaut Who Hopes Life on Another Planet Will Be More Bearable, B. A. Modlin