Wild horses

Wild horses,

A phrase in my mind from

The beginning of time and

Patti Smith’s, a poet of song

And her own good time,

Her words unwinding

With clock and crucifix,

Images layering into

Memory

Of each little gift,

A ruby pendant,

A cotton shift,

The blue start of friendship

That never ends.

Dialogue on stage,

Identities forging

Into new days as nights

Pass and growth begins,

Like new beard on a young chin.

Love roots,

Passions rise and move

Like clouds through an endless sky,

Always creating,

Urging on, image after image.

Until death’s door a window, the weak

Hand still strong, loyal

To a love of life and holding on.

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