I think about the word plane
as my daughter sands the picnic
table, a task she takes on every
summer, earbuds in, goggles on, the
sander whizzing as it strips off
layers of stain.
A plane flies overhead. Biplane.
Some words and sounds put me into
other places, her planing wood,
the biplane planing the sky
mowing through layers of
space and time as
she orbits the wood, navigating
deeper into another place—another
plane—of existence beneath
the sawdust, banking and gliding
as the globe turns, her body
mirroring the motion in the sky.
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