I’ll be flying home on a full moon’s tail,
rising above dikes
and foggy London skies,
sinking into a Santa Ana trail
and sea coast air,
and memory.
All these months,
these hard long days,
all this has been for my good.
I fell short, skinned knees,
and rose again.
Process: called growth.
The vacuum sucks these last days by.
Leaves fall this week;
they barely changed the last.
The veil of home is sheered so thin;
I slip back
to the other side.
I’ll fly home with a lighted guide,
over dark waters
and American lights.
Time captured this moment for me …
the landing gear touches,
I slip back to the other side.