So high above the land I love I glide
With no wasted effort by me. Just wind
That’s heated below raises me to defy
The laws of gravity. Seeing no sin
Of man–only the open world as naked
As fresh love–I use my skin to respond
To the contours of earth, roughly caressed
By blankets of cosmic silk. I turn around
That hill of restraint and dangle my legs
From the seat of danger. In time it’ll end;
The wind will die on a gasp as night takes breath.
I will be down flat on ground. I’ll suspend
My reverie. But not quite yet. The wind’s
still supreme and gently keeps alive my dreams.
I wonder how it feels to paraglide. I have never tried it but when I look at people soaring across the landscape I feel as though the wind is speaking to me as much as it is to them. At present, I am arrested by the "playful, silk-ribbon bondage of the sonnet". A lovely metaphor for writing in meter by A.E. Stallings (From essay "Crooked Roads Without Improvement: Some Thoughts on Formal Verse")