Once I lived a life so small, one could
One did measure it every six minutes, until time
Warped and changed, melding, molding, falling in
On itself, a clock
Without a big hand, ticking and doling
out life’s moments in
Until I said enough, until I had enough, until I had nothing left.
But six minutes.
Then on the day, that day, that rain cold day when I
Learned to fly, fingers clutching his mane in wonderment,
My child, my love, my friend, my soul’s confident, leapt
Off the ground, and without planning,
I followed, finding time stood still while on his back, and the
Only sound is the beat of his hooves marked my passage in space.
We flew and time healed, mending, changing, reconfiguring, until the
smallest moment became so large, the
fearsome jow resounded with every flick of his tail.