Planes

Planes


I would stand by the large enormous window watching
as the steel birds would steer unto a smooth runway,
and then slowly, the propeller would hum and sing,
and the engine would roar, and the plane floated
across the somber cement, before diving
into the sky, piercing the air, to lands elsewhere -
Seattle, Mexico City, Tokyo, Honolulu -
places I had never seen before. I would imagine
I was in the cockpit guiding the dragon
through the billowing clouds, tremulous rain,
turbulence, until we reached our final altitude,
and coasted over the rainbow.

I would close my eyes, open them, and look
up at my father, his enormous hand enveloping
mine. Even at five years old, I loved the art
of flying, how I could push up off the ground,
spread my arms, feel the tension in the air
as I flew up, up, up above forests, streets,
cul-de-sacs, and strip malls, until all I could see
were patches of green and brown, or the tips
of great mountain tops, flying to worlds
unknown, but places I would recognize as home
once I slowly landed safely and touched ground.

To this day, I dream of flying across great waters
and large masses of land, sometimes in centuries
long ago, sometimes in futuristic worlds
where others can fly as well. I know for certain
that I have flown in past lives. It is innate,
something intrinsic. And so I fly, fly, fly feeling
free as those airplanes I witnessed
as a mere child. Free. Free at last.