I Fly Poem by John Shea

When I was eight, I started to fly
For what reason, know not I.
At first I was awkward, would crash and burn.
Awakening alive, ready for another turn.

When I was twenty, I improved in my flights
Perfection was the goal in my sights.

Now in my sixties, I can circumvent the earth.
I fly, I flew, route sixty-six.
Leaving no rubber, nothing to fix.

Saw the Andes mountains with frost on my wings.
Watched every Mockingbird as he sings.

Never left this earth.
Next flight will be the first.