In my recurring dream, I am walking
in a strange neighborhood when I begin
to fly, spreading wide my arms, welcoming
sunlight, my body lifted by soft wind,
gliding in a glowing, soaring ballet,
pause of arabesque, dipping like sparrow,
whip of pirouette, arms in playful sway
as I sweep over rooftops, over rows
of stuffed freeway traffic, joggers gazing
as I hover above tree-lined park trails,
watch lovers who break their clenches, praising
my pas du cheval, then my aerial
adagio. As I reach a lake in
the wood, I awaken, feel forsaken.
Roger Armbrust
October 2, 2007
