Finding the Southward Wind
Her wandering gaze always falls
Upon some troubled gate,
One which the passing Autumn breeze,
And quivering branches of trees
Gives some means of anticipation,
Some excitement, some anxiety.
Her brown, soft eyes,
Pan the grasses and the skies,
Looking for some heart to keep,
But never in the chilly wind's
Soft touch that sends shivers along the tangled hairs,
And capricious forelock,
Does she find a heart to keep,
For she knows not her own
And desires deep.
Yet never doth these occurrences remain
And prevent the mare from finding a home,
For that unhinged gate is always swaying,
Always open for her to travel.
And now, as she gently nuzzles my open palm,
Looking for some hidden apple
In my pockets,
I can see the fire in her eyes that gaze so
Listlessly out into the open,
Pretending to be lost,
Reminding me of you.