On Talking to a Para Glider from New York


On Talking to a Para Glider from New York (28 lines)


In the night I dream of slope running on shingles, grey with age,

one foot on the barn roof, one for the air.

The wind fills the canopy, a forward launch, the hay a safety net below.

I toe the approaching trees: cottonwoods scratching the surface of the sky.

I feel the lift beneath my arm foils, as the core bears me to the vapour base.


The wind at my soles: my tandem partner lifting me.

We dance  to the steel groan of the windmill vane,

twitching its arms westward, eyes sharp as we rustle the skirts of gold

We catapult heavenward, cumulus to cumulus, our platform to dive between thermals.


When I wake to the low of cattle feeding,

the iron bed pokes holes in my wings of my nylon cells.

The harness lies mouldering in the right hemisphere of my brain,

tattered dreams of ripstop polyester and childhood dream of flight.
First published in deLuge


Published by: Basicallybarb

Barbara A Meier is a poet, teacher, and mother, trying to write her way out of Kansas, anxiety and depression. Instead of indulging in feeling like garbage, trash, or rubbish, she chooses to examine the debris of her life by writing poems about it. After all as a forgiven, child of God, simultaneously saint and sinner, she is loved and cherished by her God.

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