Volare Poem by Ron Dragano

(Poi d'improvviso venivo dal vento rapito
E incominciavo a volare nel cielo infinito)


Waking up with the image:

The silver plane flying
Across the sun
High In a blue sky

And I’m
Already complaining about its banality,
And the stunted Saxon like sound of it
Even before I write it down
And the jet, though soundless in the distance,
Must roar and I imagine the engineering it took,
I am wanting another, less metallic, dream
Given wings -why not a bird?
Though the silver was smooth and bright
And the symmetry and swept back blades of flight stirred a gleam:
A flash of being 9 or 10, And a wisp of how a jet plane could lift
A small boy
Are my feet on the floor? Where are my slippers,
The little tree frogs in raindrops, high in the Amazon canopy?
Not a plane in the sky,
Something else, something to describe
The lift of you