by Amit Majmudar
Its revolutionary, reinvented wheel
Is held best, dropped; best let go of by feel;
Lowered, like Spirit and spider, with intent
To rise, its rise wrapped up in its descent.
Cast down and distanced, still in hand,
The yo-yo’s downfall is no Fall like man’s,
Its origin above it, and its seeming loss
An upside-down, a give-and-taken toss.
It loops the middle finger with its string’s
Forget-me-knot and keeps remembering
(Though fallen into error, errant)
The place where it began its wise man’s errand,
The hand that waits for it and cups the air
Just so, as if to stroke a child’s hair.