On the plane ride home, I had no book to read, and was listening to my iPod as I looked out across the landscape (on a side-note, remind me not to sit right on the wing if I'm planning to look at the landscape). Suddenly, this line popped into my head: "the endless patchwork of farmland melds into the deep blue of the lake." It felt very poetic, and since the Muse does not hit me very often, I decided to run with it, so I pulled out my laptop and wrote this poem (moderately edited since). Enjoy in lieu of a real post.
Rolling down the great imposing plain of asphalt
the airplane picks up speed, the wheels leave the ground,
I feel pressed into my seat—not crushed,
more as if my father’s firm hand holds me back.
The endless patchwork of farmland,
interrupted by a tiny grouping of towers—is that
It seems so small from up here—
Melds into the deep indigo of the lake
The ascent continues—the body trembles slightly—
there’s a vast wasteland of glaciers, now
it disappears into a pale haze at the horizon.
The sky rises above the haze, the same azure blue
as the lake below—perspectives change—which way is up?
The glaciers have become another patchwork of farmland
this time covered in a thick layer of snow.
Another plane passes in the distance
leaving a bright plume of vapor behind it, like a comet
We’ve passed into a cloudbank—the world is white
like a blizzard, but I can still see the wing.
Even in the blizzard, a faint hint of blue is visible
if you look close enough
I think the plane is turning, I feel unbalanced,
but all perspective is gone
Blue lake below, blue sky above—or is it the other way around?
This cursed cloudbank skews the world
Out of the cloud now, the white is at the level of my eyes,
a great plain of snow as far as the eye can see
No definition out there—I could be anywhere in the world right now—
I’ve always wanted to visit
We’ve descended, sandwiched between two clouds,
with the blue peeking out from both sides
Even gravity deceives up here
The stomach drops, rapid descent, that way must be down
We’re still descending, but the stomach has adjusted—
funny how it does that, I can’t even tell we’re dropping anymore
I remember something about that in physics—inertia, was it?
No matter, it’s Christmas break, and I’m going home—
I swear, it’s like another world up here.