RETURNING HOME

On the black wingtips of a plane
flying eastbound in winter,
ice slowly clings to metal.

Storm clouds butting up
against the rudder,
stuttering warnings
of impending doom,
but the lift is not hindered
by the force of nature.

She is returning home.

Tombstone regrets and
posthumous amends,
her twisted thoughts
tangle like her grandmother's
necklaces which gather age
in a manila envelope
under the mattress
of her dying mother's bed.

She mumbles beginnings
of prayers she feels
obligated to speak,
but fails to complete
for lack of faith that God
recognizes her voice
or cares that she
has hours yet to fly
and only minutes to
get there in time.

Intent on delivering
goodbyes and apologies,
she travels homeward
toward the hills where
her bare feet once ran
upon the same clay earth
that soon will be hollowed out
in a pit large enough to
contain both casket
and contrition.

She closes eyes,
tears filling throat
and coating her face
like ice on wing.
She takes breath,
taps right foot slowly
to the rhythm of old song
her Mother often sang
while hanging sheets
and socks on rope clothesline
on August mornings:

"Fly the ocean
in a silver plane,
see the jungle
when it's wet with rain...
just remember
'til you're home again,
you belong to me."

Opens eyes/
overhead light reflecting in
tears which fall slowly like
the large snowflakes
dancing about the plane,
she stares into
the dark expanses
outside her window.

On the black wingtips of a plane
flying eastbound in winter,
ice slowly clings to metal.

Storm clouds butting up
against the rudder,
stuttering warnings
of impending doom,
but the lift is not hindered
by the force of nature.

She is returning home.