Jules barbier
Saint
When I was a child
I came to know
a snow-white horse,
Saint.
Coat like the moon
at dawn.
He waited by my window.
Sleeping,
I dreamed: the sound.
Hooves against dirt.
I heard: the whistle of air.
I felt: the cold hand of morning.
He followed me
along curves of
furrowed brows,
of Brown Buffalo
grazing the floating hills of dew,
burning away.
Slowly,
the sun of man
reaches into the night,
tracing careful lines
through fields and valleys,
flooding the rivers
of heaven and earth.
Holy darkness becomes
shadows stretching into nothing.
I can see
with my eyes open
the body of God
bowing its head
to reach me.
When I was a child
I came to know
a snow-white horse,
Saint.
Coat like the moon
at dawn.
He waited by my window.
Sleeping,
I dreamed: the sound.
Hooves against dirt.
I heard: the whistle of air.
I felt: the cold hand of morning.
He followed me
along curves of
furrowed brows,
of Brown Buffalo
grazing the floating hills of dew,
burning away.
Slowly,
the sun of man
reaches into the night,
tracing careful lines
through fields and valleys,
flooding the rivers
of heaven and earth.
Holy darkness becomes
shadows stretching into nothing.
I can see
with my eyes open
the body of God
bowing its head
to reach me.