Porthole

Somewhere over Detroit, the ringing
in my ears cleared, and i looked out the
roundness of the window at a world
soft and sunny as a soap commercial.

Somewhere far below me his ashes lay buried
in the iron November earth, but here on the pleather seat,
face against a layer of plexiglass,
it is easier to compare sky to eyes and sun
to spirit
than to consider
daughters left behind.