Maverick
Galloping girl,
beautiful woman in bloom— you ride this life
like you would an untamed beast, your hands on the mane
as if clinging to sanity itself, your own hair blowing
its susurrus,
whispers of fire in the wind.
But sanity you suspect
is only an opinion,
and genius is the simple act of holding steady
on the back
of the bucking beast. New ideas, you know, can chafe just as fierce as brand new boots,
but you will break them in just as surely
as you will break this wild horse into a stride.
Let your toes
dangle where they will as you splash
through the mire, though the magic, through the miracle
of this half bloomed hour.
So what
if one foot grazes
the persistent weeds of delirium while the other
reaches and dips
through crystal pools of clarity? You’re still astride,
still on top, still above
and firmly planted
on the back of genius. Your chin, I can see, is lifted
in raucous prayer
to the star splashed sky, it is lifted
in that nascent, perennial
plea of adolescence:
Let me live, experience, grow!
Just know, Corin,
(let it sink into the wisdom of your bones)
that with your brilliant bareback ride
and with all subsequent incantations
lies the power and the charge to wake this dormant world and create
and recreate it continually anew.