Cloud Plane

Photo by Gamaliel Masters

CROSS ROADS (a Christmas postscript)

the heart, yet throbbing whole, perceives the break in sound

the airport lies below, a toy,
with compassed buildings pointing to a snow enveloped world

"your captain speaking,
circling in descent, Chicago temperature is three,
time two fifty seven"

a stewardess intones departure flights
"please note your own"

disembarked, disembodied
the heart begins to hammer and to skip

the hurrying crowds push past, propelled by pressing time,
all glancing up with searching, anxious eyes
at clocks, at flight boards,
they flow in tight opposing streams
to predetermined goals

created sound is twice inflated, wordless Babylon.

I stand the center post of earth.
Some felt at this one time in far Peru,
they raised a monument of stone
to hitch their world securely to the Sun

for none is there a lasting anchor stone.

F19 points me west

so soon the rush of night slides underneath the plane,
the shining belts of cities dwindle
the twinkling points of homes are few

the soul, unready for transition
shatters and is lost
the heart in agony divides in two.

        ~~Irene Dodge
            January 1984

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