Rilke wondered if he were a falcon,
storm, or great song. Bill Yeats’ second coming
complained his stirring bird couldn’t hearken
the falconer. I swirl here, love, sturming
through fir tree branches, books, and banal talk,
flicking page corners to hold simple thought,
find hope within a phrase, breathlessly stalk
others’ eyes to prove I’m alive. You caught
me on the building’s ledge at Christmas, knew
my ill intent, filled my hand with yours, stood
with me, invited minuet, then true
pirouettes of joy. Our spinning made wood
boards shake, the room’s walls swell, intense circles
sweeping wider, arms enclosing the world.
Roger Armbrust
December 28, 2009
