The soul of an engineer asks, how far is the satellite
from the observer on earth, based on the altitude
and the azimuth? How far can a soul wing its way
towards God while praying lectio divina, the divine
meditation on a pericope about eagles or angels,
while singing a psalm about the speed of light?
How about the trailing edge of a wing at its rear,
gracefully curved airfoil with an invisible stream?
And what of the angular velocity of lofty ideas—
how far can a helium balloon float before it hums?
And what would be its song; why would it sing?
Can humans build an elevator to Alpha Centauri,
the closest star system in proximity to our sun?
Can we tunnel to the center of the earth? If we do,
would we float, swim, or burn in gravity’s heart?
What do our blueprints say about our civilizations—
engineers yearning for elegant solutions in design,
the dreamers of skyward imaginations, heavenly
in their hypersonic hallelujahs of the Holy Spirit?
Freefall or not, an engineer rejoices in the flight.