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Flight

Globe of fire hover over a plain of clouds and snowcapped peaks,
Blades spin untamed into the rising orange horizon,
Strapped and cold I look out into the lighting sky,
Closer and closer the globe touches the silver wing,
No more mountains, just air and little snowflakes
Pressing against the windowpane.

Blue for a minute, then come sheets of thick clouds
With a huge gash, like a canyon, with vapor that glimmers
And puffs wispy smokes of lonely clouds.
The plane shakes and past the sheet we go.
White-frosted land with bumps and scars,
Rivers and ditches of snow like dimples on Earth,
Draws nearer as we shake, dip, and feel our hearts lunge.
The pilot’s voice muffled by the sound of whirling wind,
Now roads and squares of snow-covered greens,
One car. To the right, to the left, in circles we go

Hold on tight, a stretch of brown road calls,
Pop of the wheels, I lean back and sigh,
Over the fence, now, now, not yet, now now
Thud; squeal, the belt holds me down,
The breaks are pressed, we land at last.



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