When the rain stops I must get back to work.
I want to work on playing in the puddles,
a grown man getting wet feet, stained cuffs
and sensations felt best by small boys.
I will gather myself on the run to leap high,
high as I can,
to soar over that wet window in the ground
through which I can see the sky, trees
and, just for a second,
Burdened as I am by the gravity of time,
I’ll break that skylight into millions of pieces
of cirrus lambs, arthritic maple fingers,
and falling man.
For those moments suspended, though,
the wind will brush my cheek, my eyes glisten,
and I’ll glimpse that kid
in the wavering reflection again.
We’ll be flying.