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I'm easing out |
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of a single file line |
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possessed by early morning dew. |
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In rays of light that shine through the tops of trees |
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the teachers herd us t'wards the bus |
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with hands like dried up leaves |
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not like the green so high above and below. |
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Now I am an airplane! Am an airplane! Ooh-ee-ooh-ee-ooh |
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A moment's hesitation in the dream |
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this airplane's tainted by long living |
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and in this moment I am a child. |
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With wings spread wide and weaving |
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through the others |
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more than simply fearless I |
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catch the wind and turn cartwheels through the trees |
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in a halo of light reflecting of the yellow bus. |
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I catch the glares from on the grass. |
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The children stare (their knees are scabbed). |
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Their chance to fly is passing by |
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and on their knees spread wrinkled lines. |
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We all must die |
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like petals wilt |
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and who am I to stand on stilts, |
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but still obliged to ask a question, sound |
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as any for the asking, while floating 'bove the ground. |
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"Do you children care to join me?" |
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"No, we're all afraid---afraid of fright." |
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"I don't wanna be alone---suspended, on parade--- |
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with the fear of heights." |
