Those morning runs `cross fields of green,
Where the hills rolled high and low,
When the sun’s slant glazed with honeyed light,
and the dew was all aglow,
We’ leap the gilded gullies,
And laugh when splash we did,
Watch flaring birds in cursive flight,
‘fore answering a challenger’s bid.
Not just a surge or press of pace,
Gauntlets of heart and lung,
But the questions that once did fabulists ask,
Whether in rhyming tone or sung.
The ones that spoke of purpose,
Asking why, and when, and how,
Queries which had no finite truth,
But in whose lee there lied the Tao. Continue reading