Chasing Stallions

 

photo by Makarova Viktoria

Don’t go chasing stallions.
When you first see it--

the black beauty, the pearl

in the wilderness --
you must not try to tame it.

I hear its thunder in the canyons

of loneliness – long drives,

Friday nights, hot summers, holidays.

I hear its laughter at weddings,

and in the first blush of spring,

shaking petals from its mane.

I watch it bow its head at funerals

like a graying soldier,

softened from years of sacrifice.

What is it like? To curl one’s fingers

in its mane and ride on the wings

of its thunder?

I’ve felt its shadow

for a fleeting moment—

the flash of its tail,

its lightning eyes.

But I am still chopping

dinner for one.

Sometimes my heart screams

out for Love like a hot kettle.

Aren’t we all sometimes

a foal in Love?

Can we help it?

And of the lesser perks,

who wouldn’t mind a foot rub?

But I’ve learned to not go chasing

into the desert with a bridle

and reins.

Our bridal dreams, our silly

schemes, we think we can

reign over Love?

We get our feet twisted

in the stirrups and a

plume of dirt in our faces.

So I say,

if Love wants me, let it come

softly as the night

when my eyes are closed,

and I’ve kicked off my chasing boots.

Then it can lower its great neck

and I can stroke its mane.

Then, finally, I will be ready

to ride along its thunder.