After the barely averted
disaster—the plane dropping
on stuck wings down
the thin cliff of cloud—
skewing to the airport’s
red homing eye before skid—
shudder—stop on concrete—
after this don’t we clutch
the rail, rush the stairs—
don’t we drop to our knees
& press shaking palms
to dirt—grass—asphalt—
& kiss the welcoming
ground that receives us?
Such grace—earth firm
beneath our trembling feet.
Who then thinks of the
other beneath?—how under
our fragile soles the earth
shifts—slips—how its great
plates of rock groan afloat
on a fiery melting—
wild scald & boil that here
& there, with or with-
out warning, churns up
& up, thrusting boulders
bigger than 737s aside
as it escapes to break
the very ground on which
we would walk—roiling
the air that just now failed
to hold us. Such gift—earth—
such glorious making, un-
making, remaking of what
we for a time are pleased
to call home. Such ash
& grandeur, such flux even
beneath our lips as they kiss
the ground, hearts shivering
with happiness
to know ourselves saved.
And the blessing—this—
that we rise, dust off our
knees & breathe & live
to praise the veined hands
of the pilot, the flashing
wings of the plane, our own
luck or fortune & (perhaps?)
whatever hand released
us back onto solid earth,
& lets us forget how every
thing moves & changes, now
as we speak, even under
our dumb & rescued feet.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.
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