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I watched an eagle hover, spill the air
From wings outstretched and pause from languid flight.
Such fine control and majesty were there
As made my spirit soar, and gaining height
It sought to capture him upon a page
And pinion him in measured words of ink
That poets use to form a gilded cage
When beauty makes them pause awhile to think.
But caged, their thoughts sublime no longer fly
Like eagles high above the world of men.
Such spirits chained no longer soar. They die
Unless a reader gives them flight again.
Imagination can unchain the words
And turn them once again to soaring birds.
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