narrative poetry

still thirteen years
but i cannot read you now
i am the wind that wavers
grieve not for the invisible
within my hand i hold
long ago, in the young moonlight
which i wish to remark
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
pharaoh, king of egypt's land
over the river they beckon to me
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
in and of itself
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
looking beyond