Why do we always look up in the sky, as if it held answers? The impulse is so automatic, I’m sure school kids would look up to see if a multiple choice answer were written by contrail, if there were no roof on the school.
Now that midsummer is upon us, the urge to travel is stronger than ever. First came rebellion against the coronavirus-triggered restrictions, then a period of at least grudging acceptance, and now were back to fidgety rebellion. Some of us more fidgety than others.
The airplane’s contrail leaves a temporary trail in what we otherwise can’t leave tracks in. It shows where someone (who cannot view their own tracks) has been, not where they are. And aren’t we always a bit behind reality, most of us leaving a trail of joy and detritus both behind us? It’s a trail we never really see, no matter that we look for it. Just as looking in a mirror is not the same as really seeing ourselves as others see us. We can’t ever be outside ourselves.
Wish You Were Here
An airplane scrapes its contrail into a sky
so thickly blue it might be putty, wet paint,
a mud gone skyward.
We are all supposed to stay home,
but someone‘s up there scooting
over the countryside, writing their
passage in the clouds. Wish you
were here, the post reads.
And I do. I do,
Lately, the impulse to travel comes and goes.
I’d rather stay home, or I’d rather magically appear where I want to be instead of transiting like some boring old human. Luggage? What a hassle, and didn’t I already have enough baggage? Meanwhile we transit day to day, little trips, little plans.
Looking for another poem? What’s a contrail?
Try this one, about traveling: Flight Arrival
If you prefer something lighthearted, there’s Go Doggy On Summer Vacation
Need to know more about what a contrail is? There’s a link for that, too.
Missed a poem? Links to prior poems can be found on this page.