If I’d grown up in a different land,
one with lighter days and slimmer hours,
I would have made for you a great fete,
and my hands would not have held you
the way they often do, clenched and afraid.
I would have been bold and squandered you,
you boundless Now.
I would have hurled you
like a ball
into every billowing delight, so that someone
could catch you and leap
with high hands to meet your fall,
you thing of things.
Rilke, from The Book of Hours