A Walk

My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces

-Rilke

The more I read and think and write, the more I come to believe that a poet isn't a repertoire of fancy phrases; she is a napsack of feelings.