Thoughts

60,000 wild horses stampede

through a day without

a wherefore or why,

so when a few pause to graze—

like It’s the season of imagining

or Beauty’s felt before it’s seen—

a pen needs to do what pens do:

rope, corral, brush, feed

before they’re lost

in the mizzling dawn

or beneath the sound of sun

melting mounds of snow.

Train them to trust

your free-range words

like Grief can’t untell itself

and Wild ones need gentling.