Never More Ready

Not wanting
to ever leave this precipice
of joy and sauntering luxury,
I withhold myself
from final resolution.

She, basking and bathing
in her tumult spurred,
a mare boxed in
and working
for a stallion,
biting sneers
and kicks her prize.

Her pitch and woo,
a jaunt into a leaping gait,
her chorus sung and moaned
has won a song upon the wind
and thus becomes an echo in a canyon
strung with night and counterpoint,
a mystic slave on bars.

Her voice a cloister bell,
her rejoining
an elfin call,
her demands a stampede
run and breaking herd
and lunge,
her breath the sigh
of a thousand fires
on Tierra Del Fuego's Coast
to guide the ships
from sea through treachery
and safely home to bay.

A cooing collar hung about my neck
and silent sleep her hand upon my chest,
and I am but a colt again
and it is nearly winter.

runningturtle87