Along the Road
Somewhere down the road, road in millions
of heartbeats' duration,
we hear our mother calling "Hurry! Or you'll
miss the bus!"
Scurrying, hastened, we virtually tiptoed out
the plots of our maternity ward,
leaving a scale, a set of fine gills,
whatever we could spare
to those in line behind us.
Looking back, we waved a fin, a feather,
in farewell.
Looking forward, with newer eyes,
there was
a lustrous comet in the air above.
Wondering what this comet would bring,
we inhaled, exhaled, oxygen
from other comets, plants
flourishing.
We were not prepared for 'the bus',
but we left anyway.
of heartbeats' duration,
we hear our mother calling "Hurry! Or you'll
miss the bus!"
Scurrying, hastened, we virtually tiptoed out
the plots of our maternity ward,
leaving a scale, a set of fine gills,
whatever we could spare
to those in line behind us.
Looking back, we waved a fin, a feather,
in farewell.
Looking forward, with newer eyes,
there was
a lustrous comet in the air above.
Wondering what this comet would bring,
we inhaled, exhaled, oxygen
from other comets, plants
flourishing.
We were not prepared for 'the bus',
but we left anyway.
Elysabeth Faslund lives in Theriot, La. International, professional poet, changing with the times, but not the place. 25 miles from the Gulf of Mexico is not a place to be for the beginning of hurricane season! See ya'll around FEMA way! Send salami, as there'll be no place to spend money!!
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