You raise the thin bones
of what seem to be wings
and stretch them up and out
and lower them, lower them firmly
against the air and cup it down again
and again against itself, taking yourself
forward, your legs turning light and trailing
and now rising above the nest, at first slowly
higher and then higher and farther, and you remember
where you were, where you were going to be if you stayed
nest-bound, earth-bound, bewildered, and what was waiting
here for you to discover, what you couldn’t see, but could feel
under you, beside you, above you, with you, in you, holding you.
David Wagoner has published eighteen books of poems, and Copper Canyon Press will publish his nineteenth, After the Point of No Return, in 2012.