In The Meadow

Morning sun winks thru branches
swaying back and forth in the gentle breeze

a mad painter brushing light across the meadow
highlighting splashes of reds and yellows on the verdant canvas

I ease into this colored sea on the mare
slowly, parting its waves, and search for the muse

she runs her fingers first through the trees
then gently bending tops of the grasses

approaches me with a gentle caress
I loose the reins, let the mare wander aimless in the meadow

she speaks to me of love with her warm breath
words floating on perfumed scents, whispered in the ether

helpless babes, we cannot even choose
for the choice belongs to love

she may batter down the door and claim the prize
or pass by fickle, unnoticing

we turn up our lamp to light the way for another
love may become a beacon or extinguish it with a sigh

to have the heart for a day or a lifetime
the choice is hers

not the philosopher who says I think therefore I am
but says I do not love therefore I am not

The warm sun mingles with the muse
intrudes
evaporates the ether

my hands regain the reins
the mare responds to my touch
we turn toward home once more

Copyright © 2003 by Paul Ranes