Chosen Words

But isn't that always the way it is when you're in a hurry?

Well, for a few minutes at least, I'm putting hurry aside. I'm sitting calmly at the keyboard, serenely typing a few words which I hope will make their way into "Chosen Words." Not a worry in the world.

Like, yeah, sure.

Meanwhile, the poem:

A DAY FOR FLYING

Crisp autumn breeze sliding off

some unseen glacier, sun busy

burnishing the copper leaves,

as though trees were incapable

of doing it themselves, and not

a cloud in sight. A day made

for flying. Indeed, overhead

dozens of silent chalk marks

of planes drag themselves along,

blade marks slowly multiplying

on a blue rink, crisscrossing,

widening, turning into fluffy

cotton batting stretched along

the cold, these diaphanous

contrails abandoned in a flight

to somewhere, as though planes

of the world were gathering

on this day to make clouds,

being impatient for the regular

kind and for the needed rain,

the prodigal, dallying rain.

© 1997

(originally published in Potpourri)

***

Today's word: diaphanous

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