She’s on a stage with the world on her arm,
a tiny warm whisper in spring, always so far away,
high in the pine on the outskirts of mind where night falls
merely once a day I would find her atop low points,
arms outstretched perhaps breaking her fall – I’d never break her fall,
I’d never ask why only. It’s an effect she had on others,
this effect she had on me, precise – so fluently bewitched,
maybe a little bit bothered by the largesse of charms
I’d heard her recite at least one time, had felt so blessed,
so suddenly whole, too alive to hope to survive anything but liftoff,
everything riding on time, yet so irretrievably late.

© Chagall 2015