The plane beside is all I see,
with doubts and fears and
grim reprise.

The cone ahead has seldom been,
though oft I’ve wished its form to be.
I’ve longed within to fill it full of
love, perfection, wizardry.

The line behind I feel I’ve lost,
its puppet shows and apple trees
and jungle gyms and spelling bees.

Perhaps it lingers still to glean
in each new day a sight yet seen.