Pure folly,
and an unfair imposition to place
on a creature so fine as the horse.
Herein lies a scuffle between longing and love.

How I long to retreat between the warmth of hay-scented hides,
warm and facile, flicking flies away, multi-tasking skin.
Horses’ alert rhythms seem protective, insulating, a shield against the
noisy, grasping, gasping world
of us humans.

Global threats urge me to curl, quiescent,
to freeze and wait.
“It shall pass, it shall pass, it shall pass,” I whisper to myself, less in fear
than in blank comprehension of my perverse happiness
at having a convenient excuse to avoid grocery shopping.

Fear and love.
Herds of horses, provoked by necessity, will run,
a thundering cloud of beauty-dust,
leaving me longing for four hooves and fleetness.

Work and love.
Hordes of humans long for their chance,
that moment of brilliance, an opportunity to hold tight.
We might inadvertently forget to breathe.

I’ve turned myself inside out believing dream after dream,
yielding not to the magnitude of such wonderous construction,
but holding up my imagination like a mirrored shield.
Hungry for an embrace, I’ve allowed seductive images to envelop me,
and even as I struggle to emerge, I stumble.

Tired and clichéd, I hesitate ~

not wanting to wallow,
though I long to stretch my hide against the sand,
to roll satisfyingly,
closer to dust.

To stand apart and stand within,
to urge a way of being by
being true to my soft urges.
This is not so easy, this path is laden with mole holes and ego.

The other side of the field is not so far away.

My horses watch me.
They shy and withdraw, as I do.
They echo my boldness.
They know best as to how to be a horse, and of course, as always,
they are right.