Things That Come Down Also Go Up

In the sense that I am a fabric wing
I move through the air,
By colliding with billions of tiny invisible units
And they press me away from themselves
Deny me the ground, for now
Icarus flew too close for the sun
Well, it was his fault for wearing wax wings
In reality the sun is lightly impatient
It hurries along the sky
Even on the longest days
Even on the summer solstice
The attention is on the pentacles’ rate of disappearance
‘And it is the longest day of the year’—and every other day so far shorter
And the sunrise is a sacred, hushed ceremony
With few onlookers and few recorders
And I move along the atmosphere
The sun tells me it is sleepy, and tired, from its work
It wants to go to sleep, it says
And so it falls
And then sets
And it is night
And I am now beginning to descend
The small aerated angry warriors
Are all winding down
And they gently flush out from beneath my sail
And I glide to a hushed and nonchalant standstill
And I step out of my imaginary airplane
My sail wings go dormant for the night
I wait with you for the sun to rise again
But for now we rest.