Night Drifting: A Poem

In the night, when
all others are encased in
their cocoons of
vague worries and hushed
disappointments,
when the sky is bereft of
soaring feather and whistle note,

                                                    I go
                                                drifting.

Without the plastic wings
thoughtlessly bought for my sore
and winded back,
I coax my own to make
themselves known, sprouting out
in shyness.

After a long talk and
promises of far-off rest, they
carry me to the window with
newfound confidence, new and
fresh breath.

Eyes open,
    eyes watery,
    I leap.

How fragrant is the air, how cool
the caressing wind that
greets me as I
embark on this drift. Sweet,
once remembered twitching
in my stomach reminds me
of my unbirding.
The years have done this
to me, the unyielding and cold
blue years. But now I am here.
Others have their nighttime
fantasies and taboo wishes that keep
the fire in their spirits alight.

                                            I have this.
                I have drifting.

High above
the rustling treetops and glistening
road, still slick from a powdering,
teasing rain, I float on
pillowy air and feel free. The wind
blows
encouraging kisses. I sigh
in response. A faint piano's croon
can be heard below me.
From wherever it sings
its song, I imagine that my fingers stroke
the needy keys with closed eyes, enraptured
by the stirrings words dare not touch.
My stomach lurches as if I am in
dangerous communion
with joy not meant for me.

I wonder if the birds
feel the twitching when they
drift. Do they regard drifting as
creatures of the soil regard
breathing -- natural as the sea when untouched
  by thought, but suddenly intricate and
terrifying
when one tries to remember
how?

I think of asking the birds this
on my next drift,
but then remember that I have
misplaced our
once-shared language. I remember this
and my heart turns the blue of
a sky that is close
to losing her sun. But
for tonight, the sun is lost already,
and so am I. Nothing remains
but to move with the searching breeze
as I search also.

As I drift, I try
to recall the faint
memories of
previous flights, the
rush of
swirling abandon,
at once novel and
nostalgic, the too-real silk
of wind between my fingers.

Every time has been different
as glistening snow
crystals, and every time has been
familiar as my
mother's voice.

                                    I would know it
                            anywhere, and it will never be

exactly the same

again

The sky, ever well-mannered,
keeps me company on nights
like this, when I long to distract
myself from the
                                    swift and panging panic
of remembering that I am,
indeed,
                                                                                        alone.

The sky smiles and envelops me
with the warmth of a
sympathetic acquaintance.

                The sky, I suspect, harbors
                its own lonely feelings on
                               nights such as this.
                                           We provide for each other a
                                vague, vanilla comfort
                    that will do

for now.

-D.

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