let's talk about her horse

her horse, which will later

die

in this poem,

was old.

and yet,

what does love have to do

with age?

was there a Saturday

when he wasn't brushed

and washed,

talked to

and fed by an open hand,

carrots 

and sugar cubes?

was there ever

a moment when

she didn't cry when seeing him,

or whisper

sweet nothings into his ear,

two lovers.

there was no worry

about the barn,

the smell of it all, the flies,

the flock

of cats

keeping the rat population

low,

the hay coming alive

in bold squeaks,

and then

in the far field, in the tall grass,

he lay down

one night

and gave up

his soul, if horses

do possess such a thing.

it was there that the plow

arrived

and swept him under the soft

brown earth.

i see her walking there now.

it's Saturday afterall.