Airborne.

How lovely are the lakes and ponds and pools
that float above the desert. The beds of carven earth
are all that stay below of streams and rivers.
Only shadows fill the canyons now.
Fugitive fountains, wells, reservoirs
drawn by the sun, slipped away from home.
Cliffs that wrapped blue water, like turquoise in matrix,
stand alone now, arms outstretched and empty,
while flood tides on the prowl attenuate and melt
into thin air as children must.

(Note from the author: While reading the chapter on creativity in Levinson's Sensible Thinking for Turbulent Times, I felt that I was not getting what I needed from it, when I suddenly experienced a breakthrough in what had been a decade-long block in my ability to write poetry. I found myself scribbling on the blank spaces of my boarding pass and whatever else I could find, and deplaned with the basis of the poem you see here. Thank you, Marty!)

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