Getting There
You think you are the rider.
You slap the flanks and slack the reins
And ease the wind into your hair.
Is movement all or just the means?
You're getting warmer, getting there.
But what is in this earthen jar
That rides high on your hip?
(Be careful not to let it tip!)
You are whatever you can bear.
You think you are the rider?
Slap the flanks, slack the reins.
The jar contains yourself entire.
If you stop short it tips and drains.
The truth is what you can't abide.
You're just the ride.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 188, no. 2, May 2006. Used with permission.
You slap the flanks and slack the reins
And ease the wind into your hair.
Is movement all or just the means?
You're getting warmer, getting there.
But what is in this earthen jar
That rides high on your hip?
(Be careful not to let it tip!)
You are whatever you can bear.
You think you are the rider?
Slap the flanks, slack the reins.
The jar contains yourself entire.
If you stop short it tips and drains.
The truth is what you can't abide.
You're just the ride.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 188, no. 2, May 2006. Used with permission.
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