I write away this stolen hour in the early light of dawn because I must. I polish and refine the words that came forcefully into my mind last Wednesday as I returned from Denver, exhausted and emotional. Poetry steals your soul and empties the dark and light places in your heart, so giving it up is like handing a piece of yourself to friends and strangers alike.
Somewhere far below, through the deep of sky,
The wisp of clouds,
The skim of earth,
All that was my father lies.
I trace the broad curve of the Mississippi to the Ohio,
The Ohio to the Green,
And for a flash of this swiftly running time he rests beneath me,
Alongside his lady wife,
Her beauty slumped beneath the black earth,
The passion that drove them both
Muffled by the weight of sky.
This roaring metal box is not my tomb,
But death waits ever patient beyond the double windows.
Where the trace of atmosphere is made of frozen glass
Ready to cut the breath from my lungs
As swift as an arrow’s flight
I look cautiously for angels in the sky
The ones that mama said would bear us all to heaven
Where life would continue like it did below
Only no dirty dishes or checkbooks to balance
The search is fruitless, and my heart draws my eyes again
To the dear and dreadful landscape
To the place where I learned to crawl, to stand, to walk
They did not teach me how to fly
