Flying West
[Table of Contents]
[Editor's Note]
[Masthead]
[Guidelines]
[Resources]
snow disappears
near Wyoming .
shoulders slip
away from my ears;
blood
starts melting.
Over Yosemite, bridal veil falls
flashes thin threads of silver
from the left side
of the plane, my heart
lurches into gear,
black snow
needling winds
almost left behind.
Flying toward the sun
my tongue heats up,
tastes the tartness of poppies,
earth scents
of wild iris.
fingers start to uncurl,
stop clutching my arms.
Kin to the reptile, I feel
my body temperature rise,
start shedding my coat,
sweater,
wool socks
until finally my skin,
like a truce,
announces
I’m home
where survival
is taken for granted.
Diane Lutovich, born and raised in Hibbing, Minnesota, believes she understands cold as well as anyone on the planet. After graduating from the University of Minnesota, she moved to San Francisco. For the rest of her life she has been flying back and forth between Minnesota and California, writing poetry and teaching people in business to write clearly. She is currently state vice-president of California Poets in the Schools and has been published in many poetry journals and anthologies.