Games at Dusk
For Jim Marshall
Sailing on that twilight river,
reefing, tacking at will,
gliding from shore to dark-rimmed shore
under the dark-browed hills;
or in winter, skimming the surface,
drawing elegant figures of eight,
while behind, the current-fretted ice
crumbled beneath your weight--
The end of the body is freedom;
darkness, a half-opened door,
leading to a dark so dense, so deep
it cannot grow more.
Try floating, leaping from rooftops,
abandon all hope and fly--
Beneath you, is only the ground you know,
above you, only the sky.
Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie