This is a poem about being in a liminal place and waiting for your instincts to guide you.
“Waiting for Wind and Trains”
Amsterdam
My hope is a kite.
Its string goes limp.
Still I can feel for the wind.
Wait for its turning.
Turn.
Late in the day, in the calm afternoon’s climax,
when the sky’s cerulean blue cools to cobalt
and many trains have come, some of them our own—
you can rappel instead of flying,
walking down the clouds like so many paths
to unlocked doors. The air warms as you descend,
the world welcoming you. Do you know what I mean?
I mean to wait
until things are
effortless,
lift is in force,
and taking off
just happens on its own.
You will know
when to go
because it is
a not doing.
To float not fly
is the greatest high.
We watch the birds
to know from their arrows
when it’s time to go.
They do it
every year,
without sensors
without degrees
without calculation,
knowing more in bones than books,
never getting trapped in clouds
or tripping from looking up
after a taste of sky.
