by Barbara Bloom

I know this boy,
his unhappiness, his stern father,
quiet mother in the kitchen.
What he wants, more than anything,
is a horse of his very own.

Stretched out on the bed,
I can’t stop reading.
I remember the scared child I was,
who has only to run down the hill
to the stable
for the rumbling nicker
that announces, We belong to each other.
Once again I stroke his warm neck,
feel the coarse black hair of his mane,
so familiar to my fingers.

When I look up from the book,
the afternoon has advanced.
The fog has slipped down
from the ridge, and trees
that were hidden
are standing in the sun,
arms wide open.

Copyright Bloom 2024