The Flight Home
I ride the clouds of a twilight sky,
a little bumpy, but nicely executed for a small plane
on a small flight,
with a large question hovering over me.
My son is so close, yet rows away he sits
and I can’t think what to say
or how to help him.
Geese appear in the distance
like a slow-moving arrow
their discipline, so natural
they know where to go, what’s expected, where to be.
How nice to know, and not have to think.
Tracy W. Young began to write poetry as a child growing up in Manhattan during the 1960s. Over the years she has continued to write, while raising 2 boys and working as a lawyer. The process of creating a poem is how Tracy has always found her voice to express thoughts and feelings about life, and the world we now know. She is ecstatic, although a little anxious, about finally sharing her poetry with others.
The Paddock Review 