Poetry |
Fall into The Next
|
Rushing through airplane terminals, fumbling
tickets, pages, bags, very late, can’t find the payphone. Can’t remember the number for my father; digits squirm out of mind’s grasping fingers. Late for the gate, where is the right number? Take off toward a strange city, plane’s transparent side open to the horizon. It tips, a condor on a steep thermal spiral, spills me out into the cool dampness of soft clouds, tumbling the sky toward a tree-circled pond. Dive off the dock into cool leaf, tannin-rich water. Strike out toward submerged pine tree trunk. Open blurry underwater eyes, trying to locate its dark outline. Out past my swimming comfort zone, reach down with toes for its slimy, solid surface, water at chin, arms flailing to keep balance. I settle like a clumsy heron, wings flapping. The dock is small, far away. Wavering shafts of amber light disappear into unseen depths. My unseen toes in colder water, I have found my own balance. |