Before I touched the glass,

I pulled against the straps of childhood–

craning, straining for a glimpse.

The foggy window, a hazy skylight,

an out-of-focus lens on an out-of focus world.

Before I saw their feet,

I felt the breeze of tampered trees–

whispering, waiting in silent agony.

Days spinning by like a carousel,

stuck like the trees to my scratchy grey horse. 

Before I greeted the crowd,

I rose into a blue sea–

colors flashing, passing through plastic portholes.

Landfall coming from below, 

miniature men in tiny toy houses.

Before I felt the ground,

I felt the stinging breath of giants–

grey walls breathing, gleaming, overwhelming.

A window trembling far below,

thwarting my hopeful reach.

Before I learned,

I felt the clammy moisture of morning–

glass crying, leather seats still drying.

Nose and cheek pressed against the pane,

eyes following sights from memory.