I posted this before last night. It's a published poem of mine. This time, it's just for you.
Missing Man Formation Near Punchbowl National Cemetery, Honolulu (Memorial Day, 1985)
I come into the kitchen, call the children to the sound: at first only a quickening at the temples, then the rumble of swift descent, invisible, like sudden spring thunder. The girls hurry toward the urgency in my voice. Two clutch fans of dealt cards, one pulls a brush half-caught through her tangled morning hair. We press together at the opened door;
nearby, the mynahs chatter fiercely--their rustling display and shrill pitch in vain competition with the four planes that appear now. They fly so low toward the crater we see numbers distinct on their wings, the pilots' faces obscured only by speed and the sky's glare. And the children, who have never left anyone behind, neither in their hearts nor the earth, are surprised when one jet hooks
upward to trace the long gray arc of disappearance. And in the seconds that the jet's firm grace takes itself from us, they are not astonished, as I am, that loss, at this distance, takes on such beauty.
It is never too late to be what you might have been...George Eliot
by begone on Mon May 29, 2006 at 03:33:28 AM PDT