Monday, March 7, 2016

lines on a globe

we cross the Equator

as our plane nears crossing over the Equator,
I ask the flight attendant if there will be an announcement,
she replies “no,” that too many will be literally asleep,
I fear “figuratively” also works to describe it all,

she checks with the captain 
and lets me know when it happens,
and I am moved, 

the Earth is a whole
yet the Equator marks a boundary real as the moving Sun,
winter transmutes into Summer across the invisible line,
storms circle opposite to the counter-clockwise of the Northern Hemisphere,
here in New Zealand the roundabouts circle left not right, 
and the cars drive to the left on the road,

I really want to see the Southern Cross,
for now, though, the city Auckland eclipses the stars.

clouds so rule the night sky
that I never see the Southern Cross,
until I am on the plane,
leaving New Zealand, heading for Hawaii,
and out the window at midnight,
the Southern Cross calls me.

by Henry H. Walker
February 26, ’16

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