577 and 584

"Now boarding Flight DP-Twelve-Thirty-Eight!"
A nap cut short, only to nap again
until in Portland our plane lands (too late)
after traversing range and riverbend.
But first—the safety video must play
before my needful nap can recommence.
They try to help me hear what they must say,
but I admit, my eyes are on the fence.
A lurch—and then the vessel upward starts—
and something in me mocks the sleep I yearned…
This voyage: one that burgeoned in the hearts
of all men, ere the Wrights, the Sky, once earned.
The boy who lives within me now awakes;
and, all sleep, for a bird's eye view, forsakes.

~~~

Once, in a cabin made by skill-less hands,

and after sharing ladlefuls of stew,

we worked, as well, the winter’s harsh demands:

Man wrote songs: you for me, and me for you.

They were not very good, the words we wrote,

not to the mind of any noble man;

but, to our peasant ears, each clumsy note

was pleasant as the hand where it began.

And yours were very much so. And you said

that mine were, too. But do we speak of songs,

or souls? I never was more fully fed

than when I knew yours was where mine belongs.

But now I wake within an apartment,

and sing to none, and share no sacrament.