no spinning tuft of lawn under the sky. I’m up in the trees, with the vistas, head in the clouds. But I dream of getting down to earth again. I’d like just enough grass to lie out, star-shaped on the sod and feel the shoots of myself flash down through crust and mantle, crackle upwards into the airless elbow-room of the upper atmosphere. I want to feel the overseeing sun on my skin, immense and burning bright. I’d like an apple tree with blush fruit and a squat doorway that leads to nobody-knows and hidden walks and glades and all around that green calm. If I can get my garden I shall cultivate a sunflower, and watch it attend and turn, helio slave like all us living things. And I’ll let out a scream to the sky, a cheer to the molecules, an interstellar call of thanks.
