Rocket
by Pamela Riley
I hear the rustle
of thick lipped sequoias
tip-toeing on the wind;
while underneath the bracken
the light is barely breathing.
Take me where the moon
will not drop below the horizon
and the call of morning doves
is but a passing life – andromeda.
I want the cool rapture of stars
and the false color of evensong
jettisoning the sky
like a rocket.
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Pam Riley is a native New Yorker, who still misses the Big Apple. She likes to spend her free time going to the theatre, museums and traveling. She has been writing for years and enjoys working in both poetry and prose. The little quirks and imperfections of life are her inspiration.