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,