FLIGHT

One thousand cranes take flight
and there is a sudden silence
as the cat stares up, bidding them farewell.
We barely stop to notice,
despite the rainbow of colors
replacing the clouds, even the sun
seeming to pause in wonder.
Two thousand hands made this
happen, one person, unrelenting,
knowing anything less
would be nothing at all.
Each crane dips its head
in appreciation for its freedom,
no longer trapped
in a two-dimensional prison.

IF EINSTEIN WAS

If Einstein was correct
relatively speaking,
the arrow of time,
rusted in place, indomitable,
can be freed, torn
from its mooring
and set adrift
defying its natural
inclination.  

                        As the lights
of Seoul were engulfed
by a blanket of clouds
which in turn ebbed,
revealing a universe
spread out, and I settled
slowly into sleep,
Thursday faded into
dreams.

                    First sun sliced
through the interstices
of the shades as fog dissipated
from San Francisco Bay.
Like Jonah, having
atoned, I crawled
from the belly
of a great beast,
metallic Sheol, and stepped
into a Ninevah of glass
and steel, rubbing
eyes, rejecting day.
Stumbling the corridors
and down a ramp
I slid into my seat.
As gravity was again
defied, Thursday
unfolded, inviting but
having learned nothing
I faded into dreams.

TEN DIRECTIONS

It would help, she said,
if you would stop thinking
of yourself as Sisyphus
and all of life as the rock.
You might actually, one day,
begin to enjoy what you do.

It would help, he said,
if I could be like
a great blue heron,
grow wings and take
to a summer sky leaving
all of this behind me,
going wherever I wish.

Perhaps, she replied, it
is better that you see
yourself as Sisyphus, for
everyone know that you
have no sense of direction.

CONTEMPLATING

She stands on the bridge
and stares down
into the slowly flowing river.
She wonders what it
might feel like
to climb the railing
and pushing off, gain flight.
The river would welcome her,
enfold her, carry her
to its heart. She
will not leap this day
just as she did not
the day before, but
she often has this conversation
with the ever-changing water.
She reaches
into her pocket, pulls
out a penny
and throws it into the river.
She does not make
a wish, nor does she
feel wishes are foolish.
Today she merely wants
to see the polished coin
glistening in the sun, it’s
copper golden reflection,
as it tumbles in
its downward arc.
This is sufficient for her
on this day, as on most days.
She will soon walk
slowly like that to the shore.
The river will
continue to flow slowly
in her absence.