A saint floats wings unfurled, swayed, bounced
by currents of lives ahead and behind,
memories travelling from millions of lives
repeating themselves. Grain after grain
flows down the river
under arching bridges that break light as a prism.
A single ray travels down, wedges him above the floor
a little: levitation. I press him down
clip the butter paper wings. Hold my hand
I’ll remind you of the soil you come from.
(This poem comes from Rilke’s ‘As Once The Winged Energy Of Delight’. My 90 year old father-in-law is the winged saint who wants to fly away, I am holding him back. Rilke helps me do that.)