The Road Home
Something about a convertible, no
wall across the sky, though
grounded we seem to fly. And
as I pass the airport the jet looms
large overhead, seems to
swing me like a partner in a
barn dance before sonic-sailing out of
view, and I realize how myopic had been my
vision before I
folded back the roof of my dreams and
buckled in.
-jwh-back to The Poet back to Home