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