Somewhere over Kansas, looking down—

            the plain from the plane,

                        patterned earth—a quilt

of whose piecing?  Is there a pattern

            or only parcels of pieces?

                        Pieces, patches:

                                    a patch of ground,

                                    ground to stand on,

                                                to call my own…

Ah, yes, that’s the pattern—

            a piece of the pie.

                        “A piece?  Hell, no!

                        I want the whole damn thing!”

But how to compass that circle

            of well-watered green?

And what about those irregular corners,

            parched?

 

Pause to consider:  my pieces

            cannot be packed and

                        carried in a purse.

Are patterns always parsed and purposed

            or only partly planned, then pieced?

                        Pieced of promise;

                                                promises kept,

                                                kept waiting too,

                                                            for promised peace…

Ah, yes, that’s the one piece

            missing my puzzle.

                                                “There’s no place like home.

                                    There’s no place like home!”

But how to measure the moment

            in air, ungrounded?

And what stitches together patched and piecemeal

            peace?