My wings are my hands

Aluminum panels hug me

Tight but cold;

Welcome yet alarming.

Freedom fornicates with fear

Once I find myself in the clouds.

A three-hour flight,

Back rows empty

Sans for myself.

A brand-new notebook,

Pages blank like snow

Sans for the date.

My view,

A diorama of the Earth.

Geometric patterns meet

Parallel lines that

House homes and

Tiny blue rectangles,

Reminding me of the summer sun

And the escape

That bright blue offers.

Blinking lights,

Whether white or gold,

Scream my name in soft Morse code.

My pen,

Heavy in hand,

Jots down point after point

Followed by line

After line.

The moon is right

Within reach; I take a picture,

But it doesn’t do it justice.

So my pen slips

Into cursive,

Rounding out my thoughts

To match my muse

Beside me.

There is calamity

In the calmness

Of the world

When it is all far too small,

When it is all invisible.

We land in 20’,

Racing the traffic,

Picking up speed.

I pinpoint family-owned SUVs

And businesswoman sedans.

I attempt to guess

Which house has a floor or two

While the football fields whisper

Where the children go to school.

And there are echoes of prayers

Heard from the wood cross,

To me, miniscule.

My hand picks up pace,

Determined to

Perfectly portray

The sensation of serenity

I feel, warm in this Boeing 727, before

I am forced to come back

Down to Earth.

Coming in, high-speed,

Once I’m down, I will become

But part of the imagination

Of the next winner of row F, 31.

I memorialize my mind

With my delicate fingers,

Playing a soft song on my

Keyboard, of poetry and prose.

And as I’ve finished the journey,

Concluded my story,

I hover over “Submit”,

I tell them everything is “okay”,

And I let the wind from outside air

Wash away my worries

Because my hands are my wings

And I fly to survive

With my words.