I'd rather not be
a balloon on a string,
bobbing and nodding
silent agreements with the wind,
helplessly tilting and
quietly straining
for blue sky that waits
endlessly

Nor would I be,
immobile and clumsy,
a rock tied to a parachute,
dumbly numbly
watching patched earth
swing and drift
upward to grab hold and
gobble

But a single feather to
sweep away smiling,
resilience floating,
riding on high currents
above what storms,
flying, unattached and
never touched by
rain

Tara Crown

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-i-fly/