I don't make airplanes because I like to find quality under a pile of quantity the needles sort themselves into haystacks by the volume Decibells on my shoes to tell the bears I'm coming and turn at an awkward angle such that you and I don't see either eye But that's what a map is for to get where that plane would have gone It's a pile of dandelion dust a few seeds and a little hope that a bit of soil and water will start the stalk and yellow cycle And perhaps land on the canvas of a great, loved artist so that we can be remembered