Thin Air

I’m at 30, 000 feet
thinking on my mother
in her reclining chair

as she calculates the sky
over the river as birds 

glide and a chopper
floats over the gray Hudson.

Up here at Mt. Everest of the soul
—what can I see?

The day is short as the night is opaque
and everyone hungers for spring
to come with its yellow flowers.

Up high—the body pushes
into radiance or death

beguiling the rest of us who
dig in the mud for a living each day.

My mother’s reclining chair creaks.
Oxygen is scarce.
I’m heading to the Golden State

in a Boeing 767—white noise
buzzing me into night. 

When I land I’ll call 

and see what Mt Everest
can tell me about the living.