She wished to name it—call it to come home.

Her eyes could barely sort it out. If time

reflected light, she thought, it might be known,

be tamed. But like a lost word with no rhyme,

it escapes. Slippery, it drops through time

beneath a roan sky with apaloosa spots.

Her sight is teased. Every maverick sound stops.

Only loose color and motion remain.

Her tongue aches for letters to spell some name.

So then, she could finally shape her spell.

This beast paints the horse-colored sky. Its coat,

its face playing tag with light. Her cool eyes

slide off its haunches She pulls on a coat.

She walks into a wind fierce as her sights.

Her hands conjure the creatures that lie

just under her dreams, just past her control—

like that found color she desires to know.

Once she ruled—or thought she ruled—laws of light.

She folds under sky, folding into night.

She goes back home. To names. To books of spells.