Picture: Horses in the storm by Boris Kustodiev
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Running horses
Ignite
A spark in my sight.
Projecting from waves of jade and copper,
They blend in, like varnished clockwork
Toys at a playground.
A drizzle in the distance
Does not tarnish or wet
Brown sugar-beams of sunlight
Dappling the land of many a lake;
Instead,
It’s as if it served a recondite purpose,
The purpose, perhaps,
Of framing a much bigger picture.
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Glimpse it:
Will we ever be able to live in bliss,
As naturally as we wake up in the morning?
Will we ever learn from running horses,
Meek ol’ sheep,
Parabolic hawks,
And pirouetting fish?
Tall, too tall,
Birch, pine, ash, and maple
Shake hands with the sky.
As if to say:
“Look,
Could you do it?”
Everything around mirrors
The abundance of it all
In many a way, shape, and form.
A stretch of woodland, wide and long,
Marches
Through these fine old hills,
Reminding you,
Inspiring you,
To be brave,
And aid yourself.
And aid what appears to be
Others – that is,
What appears to be creation
Expanding outside of you.
Try, for a second,
To feel as if there were no boundaries
Between
Inside and out.
How would it feel to really blend in?
Who would You be really?
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Herons