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Earth captured through the Orion spacecraft window at 6:41 p.m. ET on April 6, 2026 during the Artemis II crew’s flyby of the moon.

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Dreaming in a Spacecraft

A prose poem inspired by the voyage of Artemis II

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by Robert Alan Felt

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A quarter million miles from Earth just off the far side of the moon,
inside a big metal cocoon intricately wired, in quietude, in the magical lightness of microgravity, they float in sleeping bags tethered about and
are lulled to dreams by the incessant whirring of vent fans deck to
overhead, efficient, monotonous, somniferous…

Asleep throughout this ninth orbit she does not again behold the current Earthrise through the window below, and most probably will never again
see live the blue white crescent floating proudly, if not lonesomely, in profound unending blackness with the star speckled universe unseen temporarily to the naked eye, the deep and frigid utter blackness…

She is in her seventh grade New England classroom and stands at the head
of class chosen to recite a classic poem created in her home state many
years prior, and as she straightens the sleeves of a new cheery red, white, green Christmas sweater gifted by her parents for the occasion, she
breathes deeply, and begins:

……….“Whose woods these are I think I know,”

and having practiced the piece to perfection recites flawlessly:

……….“His house is in the village though;
……….He will not see me stopping here
……….To watch his woods fill up with snow.”

She glances midway along the classroom wall at her beloved handsome husband, the ex-fighter pilot absolutely born to be cool and decorated, standing behind her young children, a son and daughter born two years
apart, with their small outer shoulders cupped in his strong hands, all three attentive and radiating pride for her, and all, too, in semblance of
holiday garb, as she continues on, and shortly, once more glances them reciting:

……….“The only other sound’s the sweep
……….Of easy wind and downy flake.”

As in a film she cuts to closeup of her husband’s unequivocable nod of approval with her children smiling up at her broadly, proudly, equally,
then suddenly cuts to her city hospital and to its delivery room into stark whiteness and the soulless bleep bleep of birthing machines, to watch the difficult birth of her firstborn, her son finally arrived through excruciating pain and odious protraction of time and body; then flashes to the quick
easy birth of her daughter in the same room, then into a private room
propped up in bed listening gratefully to heartfelt congratulations and conviviality among family and staff attending as her newborn daughter, swaddled and snuggled under her right arm, appears as a wondrous match
to her newborn son from two years prior now under her left arm swaddled and snuggled. And fading…

moves way forward in time, returns to yesterday in the spacecraft, to weightlessness with her three male crew members, true soul brothers of
late, as they hold handles mounted around the main cabin window to
watch the first, and for her, crucial second Earthrise, two hours apart; at
first view all of them perfectly stunned, teary-eyed in Overview Effect and chained by silence but for the staccato clicking of a camera handheld and a few words of pure enchantment and awe of the beautiful developing blue white orb; until the salient words come forth with Houston listening in, of vanished borders, of the abject insignificance of human strife, of the clear interconnection of all things alive in fragile equilibrium one big bomb
away from annihilation, and lastly, from the crew so highly trained both
apart and together, a virtual chorus, plaintive and rather harmonious, of strident words of protection for their planet and the do-or-die need for its
fair and wise stewardship, ending with her solemn, succinct summation
that Earth is a crew.

Still gathered around the window the second Earthrise begins, and after initial oohs and aahs less enthusiastic than for the first, her eyes fixed on crescent Earth, she is pushed firmly by a sudden overwhelming need to go home, an instinct far greater than her indelible drive to explore, to simply be in her backyard with her family, loyal dog, two independent cats, and delightful herb garden, and her center, like a small earthquake unrecorded in an ocean far-off, shifts slightly, permanently, breaks NASA’s psychological profile of her, and creeping doubt wells up as to why she has given career and unbridled curiosity so much time for so many years. And in brief amazement brimmed with guilt, wonders how she allowed herself six months on the Space Station hovering over Earth as her children grew inch after inch and her husband prepared their meals night after night.

She thinks of her present abnormalities: detached from family, detached from Earth, detached from gravity, detached from evolution, detached even from gender to a degree, and attached to crew only, thankfully; and from head to toe a rocket thrust of realization fills her, shakes her actually, more impactful than last week’s mission launch, that she does not belong in space either close to Earth or far distant and scarily as now, that somehow she has knocked on a wrong celestial door and must turn away, that she belongs only on the magnificent living planet she observes, her planet uniquely swathed in oxygen, held there in the inviting arms of Earth’s Mother Nature, embraced and luxuriating in Her inexplicable genius understood only to be vastly more kind than furious. And as if through an omniscient lens both telescopic and microscopic sees now that her life is meant primarily to be mother to family and mother to Earth. She thinks that upon return, as soon as feasible, she should put an end to her all-encompassing training life, go so far as to delete from her multiple desktops all space specialized engineering programs and replace them with current or created ones helpful to Earth, protective of Earth, and then reminds herself serious mission work is in progress. She promptly tucks away her dramatic thoughts until her next workfree time, perhaps refreshed then for most serious consideration before making a final decision, but unaware it has already been made in a secret recess of her mind. And she fades out to blackness…

From small speakers numerous and superb around the cabin Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice begins:

……….“I see trees of green, red roses, too,
……….I see them bloom for me and you,
……….And I think to myself what a wonderful world…”

She begins to awaken and is addressed by Mission Control:

……….“Space Lady, here’s the wakeup song you requested. We’re told it was
……….your wedding song. Good one!…So wake up to reality, welcome
……….back to the real world…And good news, you folks start your return
……….today. Trans-Earth Injection takes place in exactly one hour, and then
……….it’s bye bye to lunar gravity.”

In the murky divide between sleep and full consciousness, pleased to hear her wedding song in the cabin’s more than satisfactory acoustics, she chortles at the humor and irony in Houston’s concept of reality, and as the lyric “I see skies of blue and clouds of white” thoroughly charms the awakening crew, the word decision in big block letters begins to run continuously through her forehead like a news crawl on a tall midtown building, and along with the crew she slides out of her sleeping bag into unfettered weightlessness..

……….“Okay, everybody up there, we see you’re camped out for another
……….floating breakfast. Commander, we’ll put on your background music,
……….the real American stuff as you called it, so you can all enjoy the meal
……….before concentrating on work because there’s a lot to do pretty soon.”

In close proximity to the crew, and intent upon her thoughts of great personal change, she does not listen to their chatter as she sips tea through a valved straw in a sealed plastic bag. In low volume the walking bassline and opening piano chords of the tune “So What” from the classic jazz album Kind of Blue begins to play, and first off, frustratedly, unhearing of the music, she thinks how for maximum clarity of thought she would be so much better off removed from this funhouse of weightlessness into Earth’s full gravity, and then thinks summarily how she has come on this long voyage of discovery only to discover Earth and yearn her best place on it, and how for all her years she has apparently beaten the boys only to prove she has beaten herself.

Still not listening to the music, she does, however, begin to feel it draw up inside as some kind of capillary action, and when Miles Davis trumpets a call and response with bass and piano, for her it serves as friendly echo and support of the call and response of her own thoughts, of her own questions and answers, and brings to mind her husband’s longstanding joke that he would be much happier if she were a fighter pilot, in his correct estimation a job of far less risk to one’s life than astronaut, a joke which had turned into a noticeable plea just prior to this mission.

The Commander asks Houston to turn up the volume enough to drown out the vent fans, and with the instant increase he lets his food and drink bags float from his hands, which she notices, and with her thoughts interrupted momentarily, observes his merriment mimicking a trumpet player, and she chuckles slightly. As the rhythm section and recorded volume picks up and the solo trumpet begins to blare forth unremitting beauty, still deep in thought, and still just feeling the instrument, for her it heralds her thoughts of great redirection and weaves them into one bulked thought about to explode in the middle like a thick ship line strained immensely, and urges on her fervent change of heart and mind. She flashes back ten years to her husband’s marriage proposal on a sunny afternoon on a Florida launch pad, sees and hears her snap answer yes from her whole heart and body. And seeking added courage, reminds herself she makes firm final decisions like no one else she knows, then suddenly, irrevocably, after a low trumpet note followed by three consecutive high notes, the decision is made, that her return to Earth will be her farewell to space and all work related to it. And quickly realizes the decision had already been made yesterday while viewing the second Earthrise. And hearing the mellifluous trumpet continue on, appreciates it has transformed into an Olympic torch for her lighting up her decision for all the world to see.

Feeling confident and relieved, and calming, her attention is again caught by the Commander when his self-merriment intensifies using his half-filled drink bag to mute his imagined trumpet. Unlike him, a serious jazz buff, she has little knowledge of this music other than it being strongly linked to New Orleans and Louis Armstrong, the singer of her popular chosen wedding song, and has no idea who is playing right now, but she begins to listen carefully to the music paying attention to instruments other than the solo trumpet reinforcing her decision, especially the piano with its intermittent, humble, wizardly chords, and wonders if the piano player may indeed be the mastermind subtly driving the entire piece. With her serious thoughts cast aside, and becoming lighthearted, from head to toe she finds the music thoroughly enjoyable, free-spirited, emotionally diverse, true, and likens the musicians to her crew, different people trained exceptionally well working both apart and together simultaneously, always mindful of all others in common mission cause, in a word, teamwork, nicely balanced to move the performance forward with expertise, pride, and success, in the band’s case, surefire improvisational art, and in the crew’s case, if not art through brass, ivory, strings, and skin, the unwritable latent music of virtuoso craft.

The trumpet solo gives way to the big brass solo of John Coltrane’s tenor sax, and as the quick soulful notes seamlessly ricochet about the cabin she thinks the entire metal spacecraft has temporarily undergone a total brass alchemy and become a giant sax orbiting the moon with her inside floating about in the bell shaped bottom. Enjoying the excitement of this solo, and moreso, feeling excited for having put the huge decision behind her, she listens to the far reaching metallic notes seesaw up and down in scale, takes it as repetitive confirmation that her decision is absolutely the right one, and then pulls away from the music to formulate a self-pledge for her return to Earth: with her immediate family, by far the greatest thing of value in her life, removed from all hi-tech of bedeviled consequence, she will immerse herself in the living colors of Earth, partake in the the lush palette of summer, the flamed brilliance of fall, the humbling black and white starkness of winter, and the dirt-scented, chartreuse renewal of spring, and will do this year after year, commune with Mother Nature through Her splendid, mysteriously colored gifts, and with luck, with grandchildren, continue the seasonal family pilgrimage for all her remaining years on earth. And by this pledge she feels the soothing warmth of decided satisfaction rise in her chest.

A different instrument assumes solo, an alto sax, and she returns to listening carefully to the music determining that a smaller sax has taken over. She hears both the duckish jubilation inherent to the instrument and the spontaneous joyful play passing through it, which combine to fill her with happiness, and in taking a sip of tea using both hands on the drink bag, notices the index and middle fingers of her left hand tapping the bag to the beat of the music. As the alto sax merrily plays away hitting sundry elated high notes, in her mind’s eye she sees a flock of spring ducks playful in morning sunshine at lake’s edge, and suddenly the music stops, and Houston breaks in with mission instructions:

……….“We know you’re just loving another dehydrated breakfast, but the
……….number crunchers here just shaved four minutes off TEI. You’ll need
……….to input the change in the computers. The good news? After TEI
……….everything should be easy-peasy, but you’ll have miles to go before
……….you sleep.”

Instantly recalling last night’s poem recital in a dream, and instantly returned to her seventh grade classroom, she watches herself complete the tricky intonation in the repeated last line, “And I have miles to go before I sleep…” and is perfectly gobsmacked by this striking coincidence, thinking it to be decidedly mystical, and from it, feels the omnipresent spirituality of the team both on Earth and in the spacecraft, as well as the general spirituality of mankind. With the alto sax continuing merriment, she rolls around several thoughts of the preternatural, and then for whatever reason, lapses into a spate of negative thoughts, first reminding herself of the biggest ongoing mission fear, the point blank risk of reentry in four days, and then, historically, of the brutal, world shaking tragedies of Titanic, Hindenburg, and Challenger, marvels of man that raced full speed ahead to disaster, until she forces upon herself the simple obvious mental trick offered to her by the mission psychologist and by close friends over the years, to think of a favorite thing to do all by oneself in order to preclude negativity; and upon watching herself pluck herb after herb in her garden, halfway filling the Mexican wicker basket given to her by her children’s beloved nanny, all fearful thoughts are vanished as if by magician’s silk.

She draws up the last of the tea, pushes off a bulkhead toward a recessed designated trash bag, disposes of the wrinkled drink bag, and then pushes off a strut into the cabin center to enjoy the concluding minutes of the jazz tune.

In short time, floating with their tactical headsets on, and with tablets in hand in the musicless cabin, the astronauts have finalized the TEI complications with mission control and appear huddled above their double decked seats as they look into each other’s eyes, confident and smiling, as Houston summarizes:

……….“Okay, we’re all set to start you folks on the way home. You’ve got five
……….minutes to strap in and helmet up before you fire the burn. You all
……….take care up there when communications are down. It’ll be six
……….minutes of blackout give or take ten seconds or so. God bless…”

The module pilot rogers back confirmation and the three male crew members begin to push down toward their seats, but she waves an index finger to them saying “One minute…” into the headset microphone, velcros her tablet to her spacesuit, and makes her way to the main window where distinct shafts of sunlight pour through and bring to mind her mother’s large biblical painting hung above the family fireplace, originally her great grandfather’s. She positions her face tight to the hi-tech glass, switches off her headset temporarily, and with all sound now muffled to near total silence, stares at the barren, pock-mocked lunar dayscape no longer interested that it is surprisingly brown-hued in closeup view, and no longer interested in ever leaving bootprints in the powder there, or on any planet surface for that matter. And for the very last time on the mission reminds herself that her huge decision is the right one, and feels meant to be, and in eagerness, knows it will soon be realized on Mother Earth.

So she closes her eyes to welcome her new life, and immediately can see and feel her son’s small hand tugging at her arm for minor help, can see and smell her daughter’s freshly shampooed hair and laundered dress, can see and hear in her husband’s voice the perfect pitch of love, marriage, and devotion, can see and hear her two cats and dog in the backyard hiss and growl in feigned warfare, and, unquestionably, can taste the burgeoning sweet gorgeous joy in homeward bound.

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Robert Alan Felt is a retired law enforcement officer, woodworker, and avid saltwater fisherman living on the south shore of Long Island, New York.

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Listen to the 1959 recording of Miles Davis performing his composition “So What,” with Miles (trumpet); John Coltrane (tenor saxophone); Cannonball Adderley (alto saxophone); Bill Evans (piano);  Paul Chambers (bass); and Jimmy Cobb (drums).  [Miles Davis/Official Audio]

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Four other poems by Robert Alan Felt:

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“The Music of Lana’i Lookout” – a poem written in honor of then President-elect Obama’s scattering of his grandmother’s ashes at Lana’i Lookout off the southeast coast of Oahu – the same location he had scattered his mother’s ashes thirteen years earlier.

“Cajun Glory” – a prose poem written in appreciation for horse racing, and especially for the jockeys who ride.

“Taking the Littlenecks” – a prose poem expressing the joy and sorrow of life at age 71 with grace, wisdom, and appreciation.

“The Artists of Dutch Alley” – a Sunday Poem published in August, 2025 that  celebrates the wonders of New Orleans, and the artists working within it.

 

 

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Click for:

A Letter From the Editor: On “The Weary Blues: Celebrating Langston Hughes and the Harlem Renaissance”

Information about the book Kinds of Cool: An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry, Vol. II (featuring women poets)

The Sunday Poem Archive

“21 jazz poems on the 21st” collections

More poetry on Jerry Jazz Musician

“Where the Music Wasn’t Allowed,” Jane McCarthy’s winning story in the 71st Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

More short fiction on Jerry Jazz Musician

Information about how to submit your poetry or short fiction

Subscribe to the (free) Jerry Jazz Musician quarterly newsletter

Helping to support the ongoing publication of Jerry Jazz Musician, and to keep it commercial-free (thank you!)

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Jerry Jazz Musician…human produced since 1999

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