When I was a child, rocketships bloomed between my palms like dandelions.
Launched, they hovered in the air before take-off
as if they’d still cling to me; but they couldn’t
and I couldn’t.
I have it on good authority that many reached the stars, populated them
with pollen cosmonauts I made from the tundra in bloom
that clings to thin life above the chasm of permafrost.
If we ever leave Earth I think we’ll find them
blooming as desperately on exoplanets
having thawed a shallow ledge with my heat.