Pilots

I wanted to be a pilot
winged adventurer soaring by silver needle
threading the sky with my jet trails of thread,
powered to stitch that cerulean canvas,
leaving my signature upon the clouds.

Oh I studied diligently,
trained arduously,
learned controls and levels,
memorized joy stick philosophy.

Of thrust I dream and eagle’s glide,
my heart raced from cockpit lusts,
helmet would be my crown,
oxygen mask for face guard.

So I felt I became an aviator expert,
ready to explore those lofty terraces,
happy I could say
there was a oneness between my spirit
and the air.

But when I sat in the passenger seat
for the very first time
while we lifted off to rumble
across that vast turquoise sheet
panic seized since I suddenly realized
how I had a fear of heights.

Shaking and dreading we would crash,
looked out the window
seeing a bird sailing so effortlessly,
realizing knowledge alone
would never replace
a natural passion to inhale
what didn’t need words to understand.