Speaking of Horses

 

My sister has always had horses:  a brown Arabian

with a black mane, who gave her a foal she loved

and lost too soon. One marks the moment
a heart breaks:

there was a before, of perfect happiness, then

an after, when there was nothing to be done
but keep moving forward
in grief.

He flew through our lives like a comet,

blazing out. I have a memory of his tall ears 

as he poked his head up over the top

of his stall in the morning, how he loved

playing with his ball. His Arabian mom

lived long; she was a grand old dame,

wise, with definite opinions made clear

in her facial expressions: appalled, disbelieving,

when the new red filly arrived on the scene.

How she put her body between two bickering

younger horses, and gave a great bellow.
"Enough!" she roared,

and they never bickered again.

The red filly also died tragically young:

laminitis, which seizes the legs till a horse

can no longer walk, my sister and her husband
sobbing as they buried her,
so beautiful, so young,
in the pasture.

Speaking of horses: their sweetness, their

deep-seeing eyes, their soft, seeking noses,
nibbling at your pockets and fingers
 looking for cookies,
the privilege of their trust  -

no one tells you how many times your heart 

will break, as they come in and out

of our lives.

For my sister, who has always had horses, and whose heart is large enough to withstand the heartbreak and give them the very best possible lives while they are with her.