Seventy Feet
Up here the air seems still. No wind resists
The drift. Below, the busy earth revolves
But here that bustling tapestry dissolves
Beneath the softly swirling morning mists...
An interlude aloft, alone, above
The intersections and the carriageways
That route our thinking through the seething maze
Of nerves that chime our reason, hate or love.
Too soon the pull of gravity prevails
And airy nothing fails to elevate
The cooling sack. It is our common fate
To come down back to follow well-worn trails.
Upon returning from my modest flight
I count the feet to check I got it right.
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Comments: 4
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting