Your legs are like the
coming
and the going
of the seasons--
the sowing, and the
reaping
of your strides;
the planting of a forest
of ever-firing cannons,
and the harvesting
of your fixed,
sequential gaits.
Your back is like the
passing
of the years that sail by;
as constant, smooth,
and steady
as seconds ticking.
And your legs are like the
drumming
of the rain from
autumn skies, yet, when still,
are like the stems of
steadfast roses in the dew.
Your mane is like the
freshening
and the dying
of the wind-- now
billowing, now subsiding,
now flowing, now relaxed,
while my aids, light
as drizzle, conduct
the music that we play
upon the ground in
celebration of who and
what you are.
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