I've come to reconstruct things
with a careful hand. Perhaps
I stood here when you first
spoke of flying; since then, a long fall.
The same swatch of trapped plastic
swings with the wind into life
all winter; the same cold whispers
of wishful release. I felt everything
for us; you eased the plane
forward as if holding it back.
I told you I don't believe
in airplanes, in their chill
shoulders, their unflappable wings.
The bitter wind teaches retreat.
Winter moves me to destroy, to make
clean. I want to rebuild
a moment, a moment before:
Your cloudless eyes,
already gliding, impersonal.
Today the haze removes the city,
but that night, the lights were clear
points, a confident map
that showed your way back.
I felt no gravity
when you slipped away, half-door
giving under my fingers and
the generous wind.
At that distance, steady movement
looked like stillness; I know you believed
you could let me down slowly.