Time is a Horse
       

On the bus in Wales I happen
to be the one traveling through
on holiday, not the one in the midst
of her shopping, his business deal, the woman
staring steadfastly out the window, on her way
to the oncologist. Today, I am not the one
dying, though time is a horse, a runaway
none of us can dismount and so
the need is to find a way to enjoy the wind
that snatches handfuls of your hair as you race,
the horse's mane, your mane, the rhythm
and energy of the haunches powering under you,
their easy determination
to go on running.

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Copyright © 2016 Christine Gelineau All rights reserved
from Crave
NYQ Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission