Horse

A lake of clove-brown,

an eye that might have been a star

that might have been an eye

holds on to me as I dish up the grain,

cloaked with dark molasses.  Lady is all honest

mindfulness in this moment. Lying

is not possible in the psyche of a horse.

Her liquid sienna gaze sweeps my steps,

strokes my arm into the bucket.

The black fleece of her nose affirms

I am hers, that the smells are right,

because trust is built on predictable scents.

Tonight I bathe in her clarity,

seeing myself in the center of the center

of a horse-eye, feeling the slow sift

of her mind touching mine, knowing wordlessly

how small connections like this time-shard

can temper the world’s stress and sorrow.

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2020