Mahpiohanzia

The toddler in her
Gauze ladybug wings
Would stand in the wind

On desert mornings
Or climb park benches
To jump off of them.

Later, planes, gliders,
Helicopter rides,
And hot-air balloons

All failed to assuage
Her disappointment.
Flying’s not flying

With roaring noises,
Not as in good dreams,
When your feet pedal

A bit and your arms
Barely have to move
For you to ascend

With a quiet grace,
All but effortless,
The way anything

That really belongs
To a kind of life
Takes casually

To the medium
For which it was born.
You’ll know the right place

When it lifts you up
And floats you over
Where you’ve been stranded.