HOOFPRINTS, FOOTPRINTS

That horse you ride in your dreams
the one unafraid of steep hillsides
the one that runs up
       one side of the house
       over the roof
and down into the fallow
       over the fence
and into the open land
       the Native Americans knew
that horse is your heart.

Reading the stars --
what foolishness --
but the heavens are a horse
God has often ridden.

You pick at my words
with the tiny forceps
       of your beliefs
and if you have never felt
the rumbling below
or heard the chorus above
I understand.

The Fruit of the Tree
       is the Word
       (it rebuffs images)
which we mistake
       for knowledge.
But the Word is a horse
God has often ridden
between the heavens
and my beleaguered people;
between the heavens
and my beleaguered heart.

In a distant land there is a cage of glass
       over sandy symbolic footprints
       where Abraham struggled
       to bridle just one Word
and each of my words
is a tiny hoofprint, footprint
of the horse of the stars or words
       in the tiny stomping grounds
       of my heart.

          Westwind 08/17/16 and 09/03/16