The muscles in my back have atrophied,
From shoulder blades to ell-five;
If ever I had wings
There is no vestige left.
I am stranded here, walking,
My progress often illusory,
Though my desires recall once circling
High above a wind-swept quarry
Of chiseled, sliced, comforting right angles
Flooded with rain water
And reflecting the deepest blue,
Gently brushed with white.
Gary Witt
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/groundling/
