by Mary E. Lowd
The fabric of her spacesuit
Has to be
So very fine, so very thin
Because she speaks
With changing colors
Inscribed upon her skin
And twisting tips of tentacles
Dancing like filamented tendrils
Of newborn plants
Reaching toward the sun
She reaches too
Blue ceilings won’t stop her
She crashes through
Gaining allies along the way
From water to air to vacuum
They’ve found somewhere to stay
Floating free
Aquatic friends up in the sky
How their species have always
Longed to be