I am not an accomplished horseman
if by accomplished you mean having been on a horse.
I do not know to approach obliquely
or how to argue about the English saddle.
The bears at the circus make me sad
riding their little bikes, turning in circles,
missing, at least in our minds, winter
and the musky comfort of caves.
I do though have my sea legs now
after days on the rolling floors of airports
and the swaying rugs of hotel rooms,
and I can say things about navigation and water
having watched the wave of your dark hair
spill over your forehead and rush back
behind your ears, into your hands, or up
into hair bands on top of your head,
finding my way by the true north
of your nose, the ocean's echo
in the shell of your mouth, the calm
though deeper waters of your open arms.
William Winfield Wright