The springing point was where they took off from,
where the impost, set on good footings,
joined the arch and assured its leap and span
of water’s being there yet flowing on.

And though the weight of flight thrust back
so that each ounce of stone knew pull,
still to the eye the curve sprang free
and satisfied. And does yet. As if

there were grace in holding gravity at bay
and a certain poise in being in between.
My ideal landscape has room for bridges and hills,
spires, birds and echoes: halfway things.