The Bridge

The Language Learned

by Greg Braquet

Kicked back, legs stretched upward,
Crisscrossed at the ankles
From wrought iron chair to wrought iron table,
A delicious angle to gaze hound the world’s tiny events,
A tempting slant for climbing on well rounded, liquid legs.
The taste of grand collusion
Weds sipping speed to dreaming speed
And sets forth an eager child,
Uncommonly sensed — Flying breathless —
Sliding the boundary lines not yet permanently etched.
Swirl, swirl the goblet faster. Defy the relentless spin.
Only then does the eye begin to query and sponge
The many moments becalmed.
The root of the rose leads to the root of the world.
There is a deeper order, a compulsion to stop
And inhale the whole scent.
Feel free to obey in free-floating focus.
Shouting in tongues is encouraged.
The magic is a good listener
And in its turn may speak.
The stratum unfolds. Stand ready.
Crave what may be offered and
Capture what you can of this scarcely containable lair.

And the joke of it all
For never having left the ground…

And the joy of it all
For seeing the world full when it cannot…

And the thrill of it all
To fall all in love with life in spite of itself…

The language learned will forever beckon,
Forever be the guide.