Outside my door
is a gift built on stilts,
a wooden horse rocking in
a shaky wind.
A scaffold holds
its weight and a bridle
inside its mouth hides
a breathy whisper.
I am afraid of
gifts given with no name,
innocent doves with baby
rattle tails.
What is in the wild
basin of this belly?
Perhaps a lake
that has turned to
face all four winds,
that lets its surface
swallow the secrets of the sun
before the air changes?
Still, I am afraid.
I am afraid to
split the wood,
crack the rings,
and see that the mountain daisies have
dried out their faces,
that they litter themselves
on the ground like snow,
that I have forgotten how
to dress myself for battle.
mindbodysoulpoetry 