Forty two degrees around the shadow of the plane,
Burns a ring of
all the colors as the sun plays in the rain.
High above the weather that I thankfully forget,
Flying home a
thousand miles to escape the eastern wet,
All cocooned within the
muffled roaring efforts of the jet,
I reflect with those reflections
underneath me as a net.
To the earthbound such a rainbow is bisected by the ground,
Never
reaching its potential of becoming fully round.
But above the
uncompleted who by gravity are bound,
I can see the tops of
thunderheads in splendid color crowned.
Will I make as full a circle when I see my home once more?
Have the
changes in my absence all erased what went before?
Will they recognize
the face beneath the mask of lonely shore?
Will they hesitate a moment
before opening the door?
How can I be worried here above the cares below?
Flying higher than
the bravest of the birds can ever go,
In a shell of warm contentment
in the roaring engine's tow,
When I see the proof that all is right
with everything I know,
For there outside the window running all around the plane,
Burns a
fairy ring of colors as the sun plays in the rain.