Don't Spook The Horse
tread ever so lightly
across creaking timbers.
Leave your shadow
outside to wait behind
in the white-loud sun.
Our love, still wild, spooks easily
from its sleep where our dreams
ride wind like whispers slipping
through slats in stalls
where time reminds memories
of not only the muddy rumble
of all those endless quarter miles,
but of the silence of dust settling
through the last shafts of low light
as meadows draw dark and our aging desires
finally sigh in reflection, in mum recognition
that the race is not to the swift,
but to those who know the odds against them
and still run without fanfare,
without need of exhortations to stir the soul
to finish what the heart has started.