My Soul is a Bird

I offer you a White Horse poem the day after a hurricane.

My Soul is a Bird

My soul is a bird, I say to

the white horse, a bird fabulous

and colorful, with long tail feathers

that stream behind. This explains,

doesn’t it, why I dream so much

of a wild shimmering iridescence?

My soul has been longing to

emerge from its dark cave,

step into the pure rays of morning

sunlight, lift its feathers into

a pompom, and make some noise.

What kind of noise? the white horse says.

I study her, wondering why

she would ask this. I shrug.

Crowing, cackling, cawing.

She doesn’t say anything.

The morning sun is unfurling

across the green pasture,

humming as it comes. Om shanti om.

Singing, I say. My soul would

like to emerge looking like a magnificent

shining golden bird and do some singing.

Fly around a bit, over the trees and fields, singing.

The white horse looks off almost

sadly, toward the east, where the sun

climbs the dark trunks of the pines.

Then she looks back at me.

It already does this, she says.

The white horse allows our friend Linnea to touch her during her meditations.