Ride Back Home

by amada

The ride is long. Nice to have a window seat.

I watch the sky.

I see the sky every day, but now, from up close
the view is possible, palpable, touchable—

jaw-dropping.

I am under this immense orb of colors,
movements,
lights,
shapes,
mystery...

The soft blue sky and perky white clouds
are fresh and luminous,
expectant,
like performers preparing for a recital,
showing up their vivid shades
and enormous silver-laced mantillas.

Up close, the clouds look like a live volcanos,
fierce fumes erupting from their midst.

Then, swiftly, they change course...
as if sweeping up the sky
or like floating in unseen waters,
or fathoming a new shapeless way
creating a crisp passage, a fresh take—
outsourcing light and grace from wind and sky.

Oh, blessed mystery of the canvas...

and my mad, wandering mind
thirsty to unravel the knows of the unknown.

I think of Monet: his perception,
his loose brush strokes, his genius...
mockingly staring at me, from above.

Air by air
the mechanical bird climbs
and I am above the clouds!

The world seems in reverse:
the sky becomes the sea,
its clouds, its rushing waves.

An immense globe of mastery unfurls...
if only I culd draw a masterpiece

because everything is possible

as if I could stretch my arms out
as if I could blend in the sky
as if I could knock at the gates of Heaven.

Movement, mystery, adventure—

but my best sights
were on the way
coming back home.

≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈

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Reviewed 12/29/19

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Views and thoughts from the airplane

Ride Back Home

by amada

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