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.