Portland Air

I was going to Portugal 

Walking on a forest path past a small 

Whitewashed stone house 

Somewhere in Switzerland 

Fragrant pine needles under my feet

I recalled traversing that narrow byway

One time before, and it was pleasurable 

A safe connector

First, tho, I had

To find the plane, and 

No one selling candy and Dramamine 

Behind the counters in the crosshairs

Of the airport

Quite knew where it was 

When I was asking

Where to find that plane.

But I saw a wide opening, an 

Airport arch into a long ramp, 

Bright sky awaiting, 

Beckoned, I walked toward 

Light beyond a marshy shore; 

There, rough seas suddenly calmed to glass, 

Lapping waters, a small raft waiting

Someone held my hand and 

I tiptoed thru the shallows 

And found an open seat

I mean, a place for me to sit, as we 

Paddled to the plane on a tarmac 

On a reef altho 

I do not know for sure

One thing though, I remembered to bring

A large sheaf, of art and drawings, 

Papers, blank spaces, to be filled with 

Whatever might be coming 

At first I thought they might be mine

But I gave them to a boy beside me

He too seemed to be a voyager

In search of larger understandings

The waters were grey then, as we 

Slipped moorings

And I woke up.