To go slowly,
a brave thing.
To stop and taste the Spring.
To feel your weight on me,
to go slowly.
The mare of me, I buck at the bit of subtlety.
My nostrils flare at the indignation of this pace,
yet no carousel can spiral higher than its place.
(I wish the courage to stop.
Be still)
Afraid to feel the reins slack,
the thrill of uncertainty,
and know it to be
the elixir that lifts life.
Teach me
that the seeker is not sought
and she who does not gamble to give trust can be
assured she will win nought
Tell me to stop, make me breathe.
Hold me down,
and go slowly with me.
Sionnachaí 