Touching the Moon
She swings in the space between heartbeats and held breath,
her dress spilling like milk and moonlight and all the soft things
she's kept hidden. Her hands grip the ropes—not chains, never chains— that lead her upward into the impossible, into the yes-you-can. The moon cups her like a mother's palm, like the gentlest invitation, close enough now to press her toes against its silver skin,
to feel it yield and whisper back: rest here, wild one, rest.
Stars rain down like confetti at a celebration she forgot she was invited to, and the clouds part like curtains on opening night, eager witnesses to this delicious impossibility: a woman suspended between yesterday's ache and tomorrow's maybe, reaching with wonder-filled hands for the light that whispers 'darling, you've belonged here all along—welcome home.'
-Artwork created in Photoshop and additional image-painting programs
-Poetry written by me
-both copyright to ©Stacy Stephens