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 pure honesty.
Lying has no place in the psyche of a horse.
Her liquid sienna gaze sweeps over 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 her pupil, feeling the slow sift
of her mind touching mine, knowing wordlessly
how small connections like this time-shard
temper the world’s stress and sorrows
as seen through the dark moons of equine eyes.
