Still in the stars

Still in the stars

Six Canada Geese descend

toward the water, arcing slightly

to the left, with perfect velocity, precise

angles.  They glide on outstretched wings,

only micro-adjustments of feathered-bodies-in-space.

Witnessing, held, I hold

my breath. I am on an airplane

descending toward the tarmac: gut

going two directions, dropping down

and churning, my heart

fleeing into my throat,

in a prayer for

safe landing.

I have flown like that, my body

is remembering!  Perhaps a favorite

dream? Or my life as a bird? (Maybe

I was previously a silly goose!)

Yearning

or remembering?  When

my daughter was barely

four years old, she asked me,

“Mama, do you remember when we were still in the stars?"

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Note: This is a rendering of my essay "Yearning and remembering" in poetic form, thanks to my colleague and friend Simeon Dreyfuss.