welcome home

airplanes fly
in and out of my sight
I turn to follow
their trails
as they disappear into
the sun

home bound
or not
carrying with them
little blots
of inky memories
which chase
each other
as sleep comes
knocking, crashing

I remember the Alps
and the lovely, comfortable
ache down the tendons
of my neck
that came
with globetrotting
and wanderlusting

irises reflecting
midnight rain
on cobblestoned streets
smells of memories
telling stories
of that last night
in Rome

you invariably live
in transcendence
in ships and planes
roads and pubs
where you left
parts of you
behind
daring to come and be one
when you raise your eyes
to face the blue of the sun
and the flight of birds
and you spot an airplane
flying in and out
of your sight
and you turn to follow its trail
as it disappears.