A free verse poem about looking down on clouds during a plane flight.
|Seat belts securely fastened,
seat backs and trays in upright position,
we hurtle down the DFW runway…
up, up, and away into blue sky.
Within minutes of flying time,
the ground disappears, covered
by a blanket of billowy whiteness.
A skyscape of rolling mounds and crevices
extends unbroken to the distant horizon,
as though some gigantic cotton candy
machine has poured forth a layer
of white spun magic to layer the earth.
The clouds gleam gloriously in the sunlight
like an expanse of untainted Arctic snow;
everyone should have the pleasure
of seeing the tops of clouds!
Soon the purity of pristine white
becomes dirtied by gray angriness,
as the sky quickly turns darker
and menacing streaks of lightning
flash among the brooding thunderheads.
Turbulence bounces the plane like
a leaf floating in a rapid stream
as we descend through the storm
to safely touch down amidst driving
sheets of rain.
I must say the tops of clouds
offer a much more majestic
sight than their underneaths do.
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