Wind-walkers,
how we envied you
riding a golden plume
on a glitter-mad trajectory
to watch Earth roll
her blooming hips below
and scout the shores
of still unnamed seas.
You were the Balboas
we longed to be,
all star-spangled grin,
upbeat and eager,
a nation’s cameo.
When the sun went out
and you blew into your shadow,
horrors clanged
like falling bells.
You orbit our thoughts now
as last we saw you:
boarding a shuttle bound
out of this world,
quivering with thrill,
deadset, but tingling
and climb that old ladder
whose rungs lead only higher.
We still dream your dream,
though we taste your fire.