Her dark presence was more like a shadow,
for she wore her fortitude with Sunday hands
and listened to the way the wind told her secrets,
something far away in her eyes.
I was the path myself,
always loving the turn and curve,
flying towards and away from the soft call
of her breathing.
The path was the adventure,
after the tedious drive with window eyes;
it made the sound of hoof beats,
called the wild horses from behind rocks
and pushed me from the places where
to stop was to be caught looking
with something far away in my eyes.
I stopped...
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