Warm air rises to the ceiling.
I draw a deep breath,
stretch out my arms
with fingers like feathers.

My wife sees me lean
to the wind, take flight
like a balsa wood plane
thrown by a child.

I glide around the house,
banking through doorways,
pushing air past my lips
as if I’m the wind.

She shakes her head,
calls me a crazy old bird.

I whoosh over deserts
and canyons, under the blue
of infinite sky with no record
of old age or childhood.

Circling back I look
into her eyes, swoop
from the clouds,
wrap my frail wings
around her.