Airplanes

The beauty of the airplane is not about the machinery,
The bestial nature of it's size and movement.
The beauty of it lies in it's representation of possibility.
Swift and forward moving and incapable of looking back,
And, even while circling and seeking good, smooth, firm
Places to land, it moves decisively ahead.
Into days and nights and storms and fear and fright.
It holds the graduate, flying to the city for an interview.
The estranged husband eager to see his family.
The immigrant fleeing un/due persecution in his homeland.
The young professional hoping to make a mark at a conference.
It holds the loose dreams of the artist seeking his bohemian
Paradise.
The sick child going to a doctor, and his worried mother
Who will shield her pain to provide unyielding strength.
The young man, who has to meet his boyfriend's family.
That fear encapsulated in the warmth of knowing how large
Yet conversely small a thing that is for the beauty of their love.
It holds the friend who is family, that you haven't seen in quite some
Time.
It brings you that first and full on embrace. Like winds on a warm shore,
And, truths and bonds, and some piece of
Wholeness.
The beauty of the airplane is not about the roar of it's engines,
Nor, the speed of it's propellers and turbines,
Nor it's horrendous sounds.
It is in the possibility of it's flights,
The connection of hearts and hands through time and space.
The fusion of dreams and hope carved into reality.
The speed of physical connectivity and protection and
Proximity.
This is the beauty of it.