Arms

 

When you lift the young pup — blind, burrowing

all belly — it settles

like a child

in the pool of your arms,

stilling

 

oblivious to the humming rush 

that races along your spine,

a dusty pack chasing thunder in hooves

herdswept, heedless

of the lightning that scores its ancient tune

across fire linked hillocks within 

a skull shaped bowl.

 

The mind is like that —

a mute storming, 

primal and passionate,

flow-wise or raging.

We are easily swept up,

torn away, 

spit out,

left blind and wanting 

a warm set of arms — 

 

even as arms 

wait

at our side.

 

Settle here.

As your current tugs at pursue 

and retreat

 

know that you are also 

the grass furred bluff view

and hoof beaten trail,

storm-swept and drenched in

sky pools of light.

You can weather your own 

depths

and play in these clouds.

You can hold your young pup

in these arms.