Friday Night's Resurrection

The world reawakens here, now,
along the Bay shore
where warm, moist wind breathes life
upon our skin.
We are free of winter coats, gloves, hats,
strolling beneath a full moon 
and white clouds swirled
inland from the sea.

Across miles of glittering water,
Bethlehem Steel's forge 
lights the sky with fire.
Westward, power plant chimneys 
stand halfway to heaven,
their ominous red eyes blinking.
To our north, beyond the Key Bridge's
mammoth black skeleton, 
skyscrapers loom like monoliths 
frosted with their own white light.

How grand, how cold they appear from here
as your hand slips warmly into mine.
This wind -- it's a gift from God,
a first breath of spring 
blasting three months 
of dirt and must from my soul.

Yet this glorious sky, this energy
has its dangers --
just ask the pilots of those mighty 
metal birds come home to roost...
A flock approaches in a line,
strung out like miles of dazzling
Christmas lights with no wire
between them.

Each jet roars overhead, 
wingtips swaying, engine pitch
rising, sinking as pilots struggle
through final approach.
What a monster, that 747, 
so huge and low and roaring 
I can see its landing lights 
winking in your eyes.

I close mine and we kiss,
while a freighter's horn moans
in the distance,
calling out for two sturdy tugboats
to nudge her home...

Scott Speck
03/06/2004