A poet is a wind child
who can only play with that favorite toy,
a crystal bead of sweat that
springs forth from the mind.

To accept another plaything
would be slumberous, shadowy surrender,
so poet: don't stray far from
the shade of an old Oak Tree.

For some sparrow hands which
are washed with clarity can unpen with a key,
A shy horse with a black coat
And a star upon his brow.

His muscles strong against
the dark night and pulsing roads and travelers not known,
his hooves will kick 'gainst the earth
for the reigns o' your own sweat.

It'll be a while now until
The day comes and with it your eyesight,
still wander on forth with a candlestick
as you do in infant fatigues.

There is family watching you
over the dimlit alleys of abandoned streets,
who await you willingly-
and for the ringing of horse bells.