When I was a child
my uncle laughed
and gestured at the sky
and stabbed it with his pipe and said
that men could never fly like birds,
with tilt and song,
and I thought time had proved him wrong
and he was crazy.
But now that I am aged
I yearn to fly like birds
or simply laugh
like crazy old St. Francis, or Ji Gong,
whose heart was ever in the air,
and whose care was dosed with love or laughter,
seeking truth the way an old man hikes,
with careful pace, attentive strides,
concerted but not lazy,
and every day I miss him,
and wish to soar, and
trust the things that trusted him,
and gambol on a whim
and seek the thing that he sought after,
for truth is not described by lines,
but rises to a winter sky
like smoke.