Hanging by my Knees If I were to die too soon to leave a legacy of wealth or art I hope at least to find the frame of mind for soaring. Lying beside a man of rare body heat, wrapped in his wanders, I want what stillness of the mind offers. But what I know of stillness lasts as long as curls heated into my hair; for vanity I've wasted mornings thinking through the night, dancing from the idea of indigo-- blue, how blue? to the note I will write the newsgroup soc.roots about Goose Creek men who overturned Locke's aristocracy. Or the Pottawatomies who built scaffolding in trees on my childhood farm to escape mosquitos with a breeze, as I did in the hayloft of the barn. When I need stillness now I return to the scratchy bed above the river. My eyes are the color of early morning summer corn. So interesting, this old chaos of the sun with 267 solid colors defined and not one called blood, mango or conch. So little time to indulge, I want stillness all around me, whiffling and warm from the dreams of others who have fallen into stelliform tissue while I swipe tomorrow for tonight, stillness for the sliding grasp of it. I remember being five: Letting go of my hands hoping my legs would hold to twirl the crossbrace of the swing. ©Anne Prowell 1996