There once was a lion in love with a breeze —
neither jet stream nor hurricane, 
just a humble riffle of air —  
but on that breeze the lion soared.  

Once could say the lion must surely have been
transformed into some other being, as lions
cannot fly — and yet, the lion flew,  
and there’s not more to be said of that, I think, 

unless you are one who must find meaning
in all things, one who must sip rainwater
from a china cup, one who raises a book
to understand sunrise and thus misses the sight

of a lion making a transit across the face of the sun,
borne in the arms of his longtime beloved.  
If it happened to you, you would no doubt seek a parachute;
you’d be so unworthy of the love of a good breeze.