I am a lover of hands and horses,
Riding the wind like a paintbrush,
Allo stocata with a fountain pen,
Against tirades of strikes and crumples.
To write is to be written –

So I write dear love,
From love coming true –
The wishes within me
Are granted within you.

Dancing with hollow girls,
In imperfect glass slippers,
Waiting to feel the music,
Rushing through my fingers.
Giving the longed-for the shapes
I have journeyed through,
Adorning life with sound, and sensation.

With these hands I will hold a little,
Rather than let volumes drift,
Into dreams fathomed but unmet,
We sow and grow in me, in you.

Racing the dust to dust –
Upon swiftwinded steeds
Catching the glory of living –
And banishing the lamentations,
Of those who dare not ride,
Until time comes round –
And love lifts the rowboats dreaming,
Up to the rhythms and lilting tides.
Adrift in the sea of my possibility.

And I ride and I ride,

Until I find the way.