Candle flame on cold pillar tallow,
Wick bent to dip of our wings,
Lighting up naught over naught of our lift,
Stretched days direct most things.
How I nearly screwed my eye for an eye,
Mistook your first chill flash for the moon
Until the weirding of your arc
Mounted to bloom.
This first time eastward at the peace coast
I’m fluttered, wowed.
As you gild your swerve on forehead bank
Of Alaskan cloud.
I’ve wandered all my life, and might I
Call myself a journeyer now?
Tick down the homing to my nest,
And sweet touchdown.
