Vessel of Morning
A claret mare,
slips through the lightless fields…
do I follow or does it follow me?
Milkweed drifts in the wind,
its intricacies caught in silence,
severed from any place of root or home,
do they know where they belong?
I drift, catatonic,
pulled toward a vague horizon
as if some austere hand grants favor -
or am I only imagining it?
Branches bow with dew,
a vessel of morning
in which the world seems briefly paused,
or is it always this still,
and I too blind to see?
Cherry blossoms, pale against gray…
hang like thoughts too fragile to speak.
I breathe.
The mare canters on,
and I, silent,
melt into the passing haze,
wondering if I will ever know
what carries me forward.
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