Over two thousand miles an hour the moon moves.
I stand here, looking at it, and don’t see it budge.
But if I were to mark it on the plane of the sky
and an hour later look again, it would have moved…
the width of my hand. So my hand is two thousand miles wide?
No, that’s no more realistic than is a toddler’s question
before the city limits, “Are we there yet?” for the first
of seven-score times.

I’m not there yet. Not recovered, not cured,
not restored to sanity. I look at that holy grail,
at the promises scattered throughout the book,
at those people who have what I want, and I’m not there.
But if I look at where I was last week, last month,
five years ago, if I look at the difference in this day
and the ones around it from those in the throes of my distress…
I can see the difference, can understand how far I’ve come.
I’ll not look at the goal and what I would be if perfect.
I’ll understand the difference and revel in the change
I’ve already seen.