Poetry is a fleeting thing and anyone is lucky
who can touch it.
James Tate

Clouds drawn by wild horses have passed by,
their thinness of breath brought a message to me.

Bright, burnished wings beat into blue,
beat into ice, ice-blue sky.

Sitting in shattered sunlight,
light through the window onto the page,

snowy, white empty page, I am here
trying to catch the wind of winged horses

shining crystalline in the sky.
I am here trying to say

what flight feels like
and what I love as it passes by.