by Moira Miller ’27
I fear that one day I’ll look up and the sky will have fallen.
That one day the clouds will have disappeared, and all we’ll have been left with is an endless abyss, so bright and cold we will see ourselves reflected in it.
I fear that one day I’ll wake up and I won’t be able to hear the birdsong anymore.
The high chirping that is their language, their laughter.
I fear that one day the sun’s warmth will leave icy fractals in her wake and heaps of fire and smoke in her absence.
I fear that one day the ash will freeze over and the sky will become so bright that it will drown the trenches in cold fire.
I fear that one day I’ll remember that I cannot gaze upon the world from the temple of clouds anymore, and I’ll forget my purpose.
I fear that one day I’ll forget how it was to live among the clouds and breathe among the stars.
I fear that one day the earth will grow tired of her mistreatment and will punish the innocent.
I fear that the blindness of the youth will be their blame all over again.
I fear that those around me will forget how much they are loved and that I will be punished for telling them so.
I fear that one day I’ll be ready to go home, only to realize the clouds have forgotten me and the birds will no longer accept me as one of their own.
I fear that one day I will forget the language of the stars.
I fear that one day I will start to forget the soft coldness of the marble floor, and the smooth ridged grooves of the pillars that held the sky.