What is this song that an airplane sings
to my heart upon the wind?
What is this drawing upon my soul
By this siren made of tin?
From whence this magic
which causes me
to see airfoils, and wing shapes, and streamlined nacelles
in every random spree?
And what makes me stop and stare
with every windborn passing
until it is gone?
And each time, wish that it were not.
Perhaps it is the shape,
streamlined, swept back, sculpted by the wind.
Function and beauty sweetly expressed
in a rare and perfect blend.
Or maybe the colors and the larkish stripes,
the promise of movements yet unmade,
so that even while it stands,
Or flight itself,
when it soars to mock the earthy pull
and then returns to kiss her gently
and but softly rest.
No - I think an airplane's magic
must flow from rhythms deep.
It comes from what I've always been,
And what I longed to be.