After years of listening, a stone comes to life,
and the candle in the tiny grass;
and the night, like a wife, comes home;
a feather, in this touch of wind, flies back
to the lost bird, and everything I do not know
begins to sway at once.
I love these nights of irresistible somnambulance!
These nights when the wind blows its lullabye
to each lonely wing; I love this old body I walk in,
I love this dependable sage, this desert scent
I sink into when I rest; and suddenly I know
I will no longer apologize for loving you.
I whispered your name and the wind whinnied back.
All the horses of heaven are in the pasture tonight.
— James Tipton