Tension

The arm thrusts skyward like
a rocket on a leash
and, stopped, still strains toward sun,

a clock’s tick from a snapped
restraint. The only movement
comes from heart’s tic, twitching
skin stretched tight from neck

to wrist, as fist sits poised
in space, its fingers clenched
as though on trigger, waiting
start of flight. Such tension’s
not just force of muscle.

No, mind triggers fancy’s
every flight, heart strains
against the least restraint
and soul’s forever poised

to rise, if only by
an arm’s length, into any
nearby source of light.