Fall of ‘67
October 27, 0230,
I’m falling, then flying,
perhaps from friendly fire,
death surely on its way.
I see my mother in the light,
dead these nine years.
I am no longer matter,
floating high above the
firefight below,
clear even in the darkness
of this early day.
Go back, she tells me,
you are not to stay,
still work for you to do,
important matters
to attend to.
Easy now to understand,
no matter the task,
the work is peace,
all that really matters.,
all for which I pray.
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