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If I weren’t afraid

If I weren’t afraid

of heights, I’d climb

into the basket of a balloon

and glide along the breeze,

scoot over tree tops

like a smooth down-river ride.

I’d be eye to eye with

flapping, honking geese;

I’d see people who look

like ants, trains like

toys,

distant hills spotted with the shadows

of clouds. I’d drift in the sunlight

jealous of hawks who ride

these currents each day,

I’d know the sadness of the long,

slow drift down, with its gentle landing

where I’d be compelled to crawl the earth

once again; if, that is,

I weren’t afraid.