As a child I climbed the roof
and sat alone looking down
at my own back yard, no longer
the same familiar garden.
I thought of flying, of spreading
my arms and pushing off,
but when I did I was back
to earth in no time, but now
with a broken hand that broke
the fall. From this I learned
nothing so profound as Newton
might, but something about
how little truth there was
in fantasy. I had seen that
gesture into air on Saturdays
in the Avalon Theater, where
unfailingly men and women soared
and alighted delicately and with
a calm that suggested they’d
done nothing. My hand bandaged,
I climbed back up and sat
staring over the orderly roofs
to where a steeple rose
or a fire house tolled its bell.
I’d learned something essential
about all that was to come.
The clouds passing over, as I
lay back, were only clouds,
not faces, animals, or portents.
They might carry a real water
that beat fire or knives
and surrendered only to stones,
but no more. The way down
was just like the way up, one
foot following another until
both were firmly on the ground.
Now even a twelve year old
though it was strangely silent
there at the level of high branches,
nothing in sight but blue sky
a little closer and more familiar,
always calling me back as though
I’d found by accident or as in
a dream my only proper element.