Aerialists

The sky is full of sparkling silver threads,
a million baby spiders’ parachutes
like tiny Mary Poppins bumbershoots
all drifting down to land in flowerbeds.
The county fairgoers all raise their heads
as fighters roar through aerial salutes
that shake the orchards, bring down early fruits
and shatter glass-- it's fit to wake the dead.

I crave the silence. Baby spider, spin
a silken strand for me, however thin,
and I will climb as high as I can go
above the sonic booms and airplane din
until I hear no sound from down below
and then I'll drift, like thistledown or snow.