Wednesday, May 16, 2007
She dreamed, she said, a white horse
came out of the night to circle the house
at a fitful canter, stopping only
to call her in a voice pitched
between pleading and command,
until she took that mane
in her fingers, woke to a pillowcase,
a sense of loss, while something wild
flashed to the horizon in her head.
Dreams are like that. I don’t suppose
we ever gave it a second thought.
I wouldn’t think of it now, except
for the way the house rings with quiet
as the curtains flutter in and out,
the hoof prints flocked in the broken grass.