Floating

Destitute Beauty.

White dots called ripples miles below,
through a maze of strands and puffs of cloud,
surrounded by an island of blue.

Breasts stretched asunder.

Air and smoke whisking through outstretched fingers.

Sun scorching and reddening bronzed flesh;
my back roasting.

Air jetting through my toes, tickling.

Fresh and clean,
floating
amongst the heavens,
amongst an army of onlooking clouds.

Alone—
but crowded with the company of memories.

Silent—
but reveling and applauding my courage

to explore and touch,
and not be afraid.

A poem by Pemba Umoja