Hold on tight, they said, but you have moved on,
way beyond that. After a life on swings,
look – no hands; they are folded in your lap
quietly. Everything is quietly,
the air quietly sifting over your skin,
the bend of your knees imperceptible,
slight; the movement is all from the core,
from the torso. Forward, back, forward, back,
become almost bird-like, sifting the sky
on the stillness of wings, no more than thought
drifting there. A pigeon comes into sight,
flung from a tree with a burst of applause,
clap, clap, clap, and stop, before the swoop and drop.
Your next ambition, that exquisite pause.