Out of My Hands

PART I

To write through this haze,

It is winter, the darkest days,

The soltice in three, then brightening,

To stay with any object, thing,

That reminds me, charged with emotion

Until it holds no charge over me.

The book lent, in my hands,

The keys still in purse pocket,

The couple kissing in line,

I choose peace on this plane.

There is only engine hum sound.

We are above cloud-compressed ground.

PART II

I hold it gently, lightly

In the palm of my hand,

Maybe if I make a wish,

And blow my will like an eyelash,

Love will land somewhere quietly

And sprout into reality,

Feathers taking roots,

And growing down,

And roots taking feathers,

And flying forth unbound.

- Jeanne, on the plane home