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The novella is gone, like a burden unburdened,
a world lifted from Atlas-weary shoulders,
that last part an episode that is in itself
ready to form a single multi-faceted portrait,
the cubist front and sideviews
plus today overlapping yesterday
inside and out, before, after and somewhere else.
Grasping (hah, that miserly claw)
after the tone of my spirit,
trying to catch the tailfeathers of the bird,
I fly up to see where I am going
because I no longer have the map.
But, surprise, I see what I suspected—
the power comes with the page
and the exhilaration of free-fall,
wings outspread to catch the friendly wind,
the melodies of the steppe rise,
young spirits seeking a common world.
This language and culture bleed so strongly,
I hear them in every kindred spirit
and smile to speak Cyrillic notes.
Caught and stopped, I stumble back
into Latin ponderousness,
I watch the graceful feelings wisp away,
like dew vanishing in sunlight,
like the soundless bursting of a rainbow bubble,
like the flash of a rosy flame.
March 1978/Aprill 20, 2023
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