She had wild
dark
eyes, like a
mare
smelling the
freedom of the
rain
soaked meadow.

She’s easily
caught but hard
to hold.
Under the grey
morning sky she
jumped the fence;
thunder chasing her,
nostrils flaring,
wind blowing
through her mane;
powerful legs and
hooves pounding
the muddy earth.

Her freedom has
a pulse, a rhythm;
dark like a Tom Waits song,
black like the flight
pattern of a
wasp.
Matilda is always
waiting to waltz.

Life becomes
simple when you
destroy the fence
and
hold loosely to the
wild
untamed heart.
Try to lasso the
sunset or dam up
the sea; catch the
wind in your
hand, or keep the
sunflower from dying,
it’s an exercise in futility.
And when you finally
get this, for one golden
moment you keep the
mad house at bay.