Look at you, sittin’ there
bein’ green on that high
invisible horse you ridin’,
blowin’ wind as you go–you go ahead.
We here are used to the wind and all it wants to say to us.
Still it ain’t exactly what we hear. No.
We hear the voice beneath your fickle flurry of words, too–
a still quavering whisper shivers from within all that hollow thunder.
We hear it reverberating through the tempest,
drowning out the steady elevation of imaginary hooves–
we hear it rise above the visceral torrent of unkindness
that drifts so naturally from smugly pursed lips.
Dismount that nonexistent horse already and walk.
It will humble you.
Reacquaint yourself to the grasses that stretch beneath your toes–
angling always for another glimpse at the sun.