and I know it sounds casual
as though I were picking him up from the airport,
or from some perfectly mundane place across town.
But that’s not where he is.
He is on a windy hilltop,
in a building designed to be comforting in its serene beauty,
its halls plush
meant for hush-
but has been reduced to his essence,
the stuff not eaten by the flames.
His last flight…
“I don't EVER want to fly again,” he proclaimed
upon returning from far across the ocean,
from that island
Home we’ll go.
So that he may,
at long last,
rest with the peace that he has earned--
impatiently sought, in these last days,