High Horse
Bruce Meyer

Love not the world
unless it runs like horses.

Love not the wind
unless it ripples wild manes.

Love not the sun
if it cannot gallop,

nor find hope in paradise
if there be no pasture.

Neither wind nor sun
can fodder with angels,

or dream in full motion
while standing asleep,

pressing high heaven
and leaping for starlight,

volcanic with fireblood
and rock crop for bone:

such magic is music
and music runs hard -

the footfalls of horses
are whispers of thunder

sagas of heart fire
in ancient tongues -

for what breath be holy
if it prick not soft ears?

And what loves the world
if it does not love horses?

Contributed by Kathleen
In memory of Dynasty, aka, Nasty.

Dynasty's Memorial Tribute