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.
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❤️