Lifting Off

The jet engines go from low hum to a roar
while for a moment we sit deafened, unmoving—
before a sudden lurch becomes
a drastic rush of faith   
toward the end of the tarmac.

Yet the wind somehow lifts us at last,
still true to a long-standing promise.
I close my eyes, swallowing my doubts,
hoping to bear the increased weight

of this extravagant gift of flight.
When I do look out, I am dazzled
by the racing shadow of our plane
traced on the ground below,

the feather-weight of its darkness
flitting across highways and towns,
trees and green farmland,
and I begin to understand

that this is some unaccountable extravagance
that does not ask for something in return.
But that is not to say I am prepared
when the first wisps of cloud pass by

and there is no longer earth beneath us
but only sea, to behold the tiny white sail
of a solitary boat
unfurled amidst the unmitigated indigo—

as if I were all at once not looking down
but up, watching it set forth
across the vast and hazardous night sky,
at its helm a celestial mariner

dedicated to her course
for the sake of waiting civilizations
and the coming dawn,
bearing her glimmering light

safely to the shores of day,
picking her way
among the sharply pointed stars.