Soar

Sometimes I'm the sadistic kid

with the magnifying glass--

     sometimes I'm the ant,

     confused by focused heat. 

Sometimes I'm the home-run ball

flying over the fence--

     then I'm the same ball,

     later, forgotten past distant

     cheers on the green field.

Sometimes I'm the ray of light

piercing deepest darkness,

     at others I am the void,

     inky and indistinct.

Sometimes I'm that voice

across the hall, strange and

detached from myself.

     Then I'm the silence after

     the 3 a.m. phone.

Sometimes I'm the spring song

of birds and peepers--

     and at others the crunch and crack

     of angry ice underfoot, wet enough

     to slip, sharp enough to cut.

Sometimes I'm the jury in my head,

robed, dark and stern—and

     then again the man on trial,

     shackled and humbled beneath

     the high bench.

Sometimes I dig deep, a

blind rodent running on

instinct--

     but then again,

     occasionally, I am

     something else, feeling

     warm air carry me in

     great spirals, a trust

     in the invisible.

Sometimes,

I soar.