Green horses
are aptly named.
Even I wanted to leave
the pasture
for that verdant expanse
beckoning through
the fence.
I could see the meadow flowers,
the sun stretching its arms
in arrays
of energy,
a warmth I was drawn
toward.
And yet bask
on the soft earth I have stood
atop so much time,
admiring a glint, leaning on
the weather-beaten stall wall
as if support should have so many
splinters.
After all,
longing is a look
that is eventually met
with a reflective surface,
like the well, green
also.
I thirst when I see the silhouette
of horses leaning against the sky
knowing I have much to learn
from that which is unbroken
and such.
Image by Bethany Legg bkotynski, taken 11/2014 [CC0].
