wishnot

i ask, do you want to go up there?
she says, yes i do, but only with you
i ask, but why do you tremble, my little mare?
she says, you are so gentle...
i say, why, thank you
and she says, just hug me, will you?

...

then, she starts to cry
like a little bird terrified
of the brightness of her own feathers
in which I'd love to be hidden
and fly
with her through nights,
ignorant of us,
the tell tale shine of her wings diminished
by grandmother-smelling clouds.