American Pegasus

I was born to a herd of broken mustangs,
tamed to the plow by the master's hand.
Chastised by spur, by whip, by hunger,
we serve not by love, but by fear of man.
I run round the paddock by fence and gate,
knowing the railing will keep me safe.

Sometimes the smell of the faraway mountains
or the bracing splash of an April rain,
wakes us from stupor and triggers the memory
of long-ago days when free we ran.
I run round the paddock by fence and gate,
feeling my spiritual force stagnate.

When did it start, the itch in my withers,
a prickling deep in the shoulder blades?
Like the chafing feet of a thousand horseflies,
something is causing my hide to give way.
I run round the paddock by fence and gate,
driven mad by a change that I fearfully wait.

No one else in my herd has ever felt
this sense of a skin that's about to split.
Something is pushing, thrusting, growing,
and when it appears, I'll no longer fit.
I run round the paddock by fence and gate,
hoping the railing will keep me safe.

The wings when they come overarch my body.
The rest of the herd responds with fear.
They back off and huddle close to the railing;
the stallions threaten when I gallop too near.
I run round the paddock by fence and gate,
praying that I can deflect their hate.

Since I sprouted my wings, no bridle can fit me,
and I cannot be harnessed to master's plow.
If he held me by love, I would take him flying,
but his tyranny dictates he never will soar.
I run round the paddock by fence and gate,
resenting this limited, tightly closed state.

Last night I dreamed of a higher master,
the one who granted this startling gift.
A being without body, a spirit of bounty,
he calls me to freedom and vocational shift.
I run round the paddock by fence and gate,
dreaming of winds and clouds and space.

Today my old master called in a surgeon,
who thinks he can cut off my blessed wings.
If I survive, I will be like the others,
plowing and pulling with no heart that sings.
So I fly from the paddock over fence and gate,
escaping my prison before it's too late.

A post related to this poem: Pegasus, the Winged Horse