Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Bay Coronet




You were a gift,
they said. You had been loved and spoiled.
Your brothers sold. For much.
The farm gone.

Your eyes pooled in depths of sienna.
The thin lady left.

Now, we are.
The man nuzzles you
and tells stories of rougher horses
long past, those who bit and kicked,
were abandoned.

You weren't, and are not.

Your stifle imperfect.
Your coronet crooked.
Blaze askew.
Everlasting fast.
Some 
clever stubborn obstinate pertinacious affectionate good humor
for the woman who knows nothing of
horses
but swims past the russet
into the grassy depths of a soul seeking only
a friend.
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