“Dapples and grays, pintos and bays. All the pretty little horses.” – folk song
Has light spun a lullabye upon your face?
Trees whisper a thousand words all at once to leave you delighted, confused.
Nothing is clear.
Shadows dance. Escape.
Never to be arranged like this, like that, never held, painted, named.
“This reminds me of a thousand rushes as a thousand blackbirds flew
when a thousand dragonflies’ wings were spun with glowing lace”
or:
“This is like the time my father drove us over the mountain,
and I, a teeny thing in the back seat, nestled in my basket,
was teased by pines that tried but could not snatch me from my place”
and:
“This was like the first time we made love as late afternoon sunlight
wove a myriad of tiny rainbows on our lashes, our lids
almost shut in shyness and in grace”,
dreams dancing, forms fleeting, shapes shifting, beings bursting,
so that my mind cannot grab and mangle and try to make them mine.
Cannot make a thing of them at all.
Yes, grasses with wild bronco heads defy a deep November
and leaves blast out from from trees to cover up the way,
but I do not know nor care
if these feet are mine or if I am flying on the wind.
9/20/2014