Is this sky or ocean,
a rush of frost white waves
or clouds?
At 60, I'm an over eager child
puppy limbed, in my desire
to jump into the beyond.
The plane my diving board,
I become a winged creature
in these cold heights.
Am I hearing the persistent
thrum of jet engines in my ear
or is my own propulsion unleashed.
No one sees me
there are no startled gasps
of delight or of horror.
The pretzels are still being served
to seat 43D.
A tawny heat rises
from the hills below,
hills that wait like sleeping lions.
I want to curl among them,
watch the horizon scatter
as night approaches
and the sun catches fire.
No one has discovered
I am gone. My seat belt
is unbuckled.
My reading glasses
have fallen to the floor.
I am following directions
that disappeared one night
long ago and are now
imprinted on my palms.
A map I had never forgotten
only neglected
to remember.
|