Poetry

A stairway wounds up to a springy height
where my body reaches high against the blue sky,
the pool’s is small against my eye,
where I stand in contemplation
 
while gravity binds with balance
but with a exceeding kind of rocking
before highly sprung power has to sway
when I bounce up and down in movement
 
and suddenly become a projectile that launches
powerful from up high
with a planned, calculated arch
and I am cleaving the air in a single moment
 
and when I dry myself a bit later,
I want to aspire to for better attempt.