The Blind Horse
Moved by your friendship, I feel like
the blind horse I owned as a boy in Montana
that a farmer had abandoned and somehow
left to suffer in my uncle's pasture.
I don't mean to say that I'm a derelict- broken,
discarded or deserted. In reality, I'm unsure
of just where my life stands. I'm more than
that old orphan in the pasture who knows
it's blind, wandering from corner to corner.
Perhaps I'm a thin shadow of my former self.
But caressing me, I know you are the good
hand moving across its tangled mane.
How can one describe that feeling when an animal,
Even with its clouded eyes, begins to neigh again?
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