Monday, April 07, 2014
Then only about a year old,
my daughter wouldn't remember
clinging to my shoulders
while the Aeroflot plane climbed.
sipped vodka and murmured.
She leaned into the crook of my arm,
avoiding a cloud of cigarette smoke, and slept.
My gaze was glued to a plastic porthole.
We flew into an extended sunset.
The horizon skipped elusively
along mountain ridges
until it skirted an endless frosty steppe.
At about a hair past the Article Circle,
near the edge of unbearable vertigo,
the real show began, the Aurora.
How to describe a memory of throbbing skies,
of hour after hour spent inside a dance of color?
How would I even have known where we were going, or why,
had I not been launched by a thousand tear-filled prayers?
Shivering, exhausted and in awe,
I followed the rippling ribbons of glowing green.
Astride surging waves of light,
we soared over the North Pole
in a close brush with infinity;
some soberly, while others slumbered.
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