Contrails

Contrails

(“But when the people of Israel cried out to the Lord for help, the Lord again raised up a rescuer to save them.” Judges 3:15)

I’ve got the graph of my life trailing me like
the contrails left by private jets writing nonsense on the sky.
Look closer, for the graph is longer than the quick glance
at a winged point upon the bright azure background.
Seen from the ground and looking over head, the graph is
a long snake; some segment a lazy “s”, and others multiple
“z”s
tracking the quick turns when change came unexpectedly.

Seen from the ground, my life was not up and down,
but a series of oases separated by journeys; a path or
a highway; a pattern or madness; mapped coordinates
or advised itinerary; few turns were solely my own and
most were leased opinions with fewer options the
longer I flew.

Seen from the ground, my life was not fall and rise,
but a curious adventure where the present is a line,
focused and fine;
and the past is fading the further behind; a broad brush
of recollections and uncertain directions with fewer
alive who knew the truth of my first years of flight.

On a rainy day you may catch me squinting toward the sky,
one hand covering my forehead, one hand reaching out “why”,
and you would hear, from this fellow wanderer, the same prayer
he prayed, “s” or “z”,
“I’m not sure how I got here, but won’t you please rescue me.”