Like the question in the beginning, "Who am I?"
In the silence we walk away from Brio now
So he can be a horse, without apology.
We finally got the human out of him
As the Druids got the mistletoe from the oak tree
With sacred shears and robe-white nets
On ground profane, because we walk on it
Not knowing what else to do, not guessing
Who we even are, pilgrims at best, home in the dust
And the wandering through what never can stay —
Who belongs to you, for example, or anyone not me.
It's self-discovery by subtraction, the only way
For what is there has not yet been found
And who better to find it than who it is
Not some opaque refraction through mirrors of eyes.
The oak trees believe in my sovereignty
Though they don't make any sign, or even yield.
That's how quiet the silence has to be, for me to hear
A heart I can believe.
The horse's ears are clogged, his eyes are bleared.
The pen where he went crazy has a stillness now
Where the leaves sweep benediction from above
And he's calm before the noises and the saddle
Knowing everything is nothing but what it is,
And what it is does not require participation,
Belief, or even observance. It's only a reminder
How to be free, with darkness as container
To gleam without external show of force.
Navajo too's been constrained, seems a different horse
Having to learn the first things last, how discipline
Is self-love, restraint the ultimate freedom,
Like calling the sulky the horses are to ride
A chariot in Apollo's skies, not as fantasy
But the way it always has been, building an earth
Suitable for us as Gods.
