A free verse poem about looking down on clouds during a plane flight. |
Seat belts securely fastened, seat backs and trays in upright position, we hurtle down the DFW runway… up, up, and away into blue sky. Within minutes of flying time, the ground disappears, covered by a blanket of billowy whiteness. A skyscape of rolling mounds and crevices extends unbroken to the distant horizon, as though some gigantic cotton candy machine has poured forth a layer of white spun magic to layer the earth. The clouds gleam gloriously in the sunlight like an expanse of untainted Arctic snow; everyone should have the pleasure of seeing the tops of clouds! Soon the purity of pristine white becomes dirtied by gray angriness, as the sky quickly turns darker and menacing streaks of lightning flash among the brooding thunderheads. Turbulence bounces the plane like a leaf floating in a rapid stream as we descend through the storm to safely touch down amidst driving sheets of rain. I must say the tops of clouds offer a much more majestic sight than their underneaths do. Please check out my ten books: http://www.amazon.com/Jr.-Harry-E.-Gilleland/e/B004SVLY02/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0 |