The great bird lifts from my hand
drawn to the sun
on your breath.
I tug on the string,
trying to drag it down,
forgetting what you taught me:
the falcon longs for the wrist of the King.
This strange wind is too strong for me.
I am rising with the bird
above all that is fenced in,
urgent to cut the cord.
My tame self panics.
It wants to hide among limits and shadows
where air does not move like this,
in animate waves of intent.
Something falls like a worn-out coat
and your breath blows me as a sail
across oceans of sky
to my home in your heart
where falcon and falconer are one.
- This poem, written for a dying friend in Eldorado, New Mexico, is in my collection Here, Everything Is Dreaming: Poems and Stories by Robnert Moss. Publsihedn byExcelsuo Editions/State University of New York Press.
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