#56: Measure Me, Sky.

I had to fly back in time just to jump forward half an hour. Imagine that math; a word problem with no solution.

Leaving on a jet plane last week.

I know from below that it streaks the sky white; blink, and you miss it. Up here, I’m in stasis - a slow rolling credit sequence of squares.

And at one end, it’s pitching into dark, while in front, it’s blazing orange.

I imagine that that’s the colour of jet fuel, whose perfume stirs me, envelopes my head, submerges it into the dreams I wish I had.

The view as I left Saint John.

The fields below are still bare, bleached; blemishes in the burgeoning spring. The navy forests are port-wine stains across Mother’s face.

Veins of water snake around and through, connecting farm and family, bringing life or sucking it out.

Down there, you can look up, and barely catch my thoughts, let alone my underbelly - white as a junco’s.

But up here, it doesn’t feel like we’re moving fast at all.

A series of artist trading cards I made after getting back on Tuesday. Acrylic paint and ink, with quotes from a few books.

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