Bridle hand caresses turns in a road that leave dust hard in the wake of the horses, past homes that live in the darkness. There are roots beneath the stables, bathed in darkness, waiting on the softest rain
Children appear in a cloud, astride the horses, all entering a clearing from different directions. They are my children
They ride because I have lain with a woman and made this meadow. My back, my woman’s breasts. We became this meadow. We are the clearing. We are the dust
We are the woods, I, the hickory and the elm, she, the oak and the cottonwood. We walk the paths around and between us, staring up at the stars revealed between the branches
We bloomed and died many times, through seasons of joy and seasons of pain. Now, in my vision I see us and we have lain down and become meadows
We hold the wind to our heart, press the sun against our tender skin, bring the grasses into the lives we dream of. Strangers in the dark, we rejoice