“One may do anything,” Rilke told us
daydream, dance, de-vein ourselves

like so many shrimp, pink, puffy,
parking themselves along the rim

of glass highway, hitch-hikers
crocking their knees at passing

motorists. This is worthy, he tells us.
This ambling across the plains of

thought and text and torrential
rain pouring down, obscuring

all but the few feet ahead of us
All of it. One may do all of it

because this is the rainbow,
this is the guerdon, the meed,

the recompense for doing anything.
This is what one may. One may

ride the wave or lie, supine, adrift
passive as only a snail, waiting

to be lifted onto a windowsill
can be. The vagaries of word

and will and whimsy, coming
and going from church to chantry

to supple forms singing high
below the rafters. All of it.

One may do it, Rilke told us.

Categories: Poetry

Tags: poem, Poetry, Rilke, Writing