FLYING OVER THE CATSKILLS
Nearly 50 years ago I was flying southeast
out of Buffalo, on a French jet whose name
I cannot remember, where I sat up front
on a flight so smooth and quiet I felt
I entered a dreamscape, looking out
over the Catskills in January, white
as rapture, trees like fingers beckoning.
So taken was I with this enticement
from a world that was discovering me,
I thought, Should I answer it now
or cling forever to this calling out to me?
But I failed to act, holding within myself,
too distant and deep, what held me then.