The plane is beautiful above me,
cutting across the sky,
towards the pretty picture,
of horrible curmudgeons-
no, no it's not that-
the plane moves towards weightless, timeless energy,
Sweet singing towards the horizon.
The plane moves steadily onward,
through rosy pink cloud whiffs,
that are in appearance,
smoke, more so . . .
that is, towards the picture of beauty,
Singing birds move like dots of magic across it.
Everything stops moving,
and I stare up at the sky,
I fear soon the picture shatters,
but beg it won't.
A rosy-pink cherub,
looks over the land.
The moving things of Earth,
have, but for a moment,crossed her features.