Billowing dust lingers like a magic carpet
with each bounding step across
a ground made of white cheese:
parmesean beneath a rising body
floating through the absence of gravity.
lacking a center
head over heel over head over heel
around a crater gaping wide,
a mouth that cannot swallow
that what won’t fall in.
There’s little gravity on the moon.
No amount of seriousness will
create a weight upon my shoulders.
The burdens of that speck (so far away)
drift off, lost among the tiny dots
that may or may not exist anymore.
Nothing can hold me down
(except – of course – myself)
(c) Lindsey Smith