Of Unsent Letters, One

The man who bought the field has horses,
and they're out there now, fenced wide and loosely . . .
I've been upset over the whole thing,
losing the beloved silo pit (why have I clung to a stone
ring all these years?), but now I admit
I love to see them, have become, I don't know,
obsessed? I've never owned a horse.
I don't remember,
fully, the last time I was on one,
but they fill, nonetheless, an emptiness.
There are several places at the edge of town
where horses are kept:
two in the pasture by the river, two more behind the barn
on Stockyard Street, a young mare that walks the fence with me
along the gravel road, a restless one bucking in his own
circles off the old highway, two watching
as I head out toward the cemetery,
and now these—there are three—behind my house.
I want to watch them all the time.
It seems more important than anything else
I could be doing. When the sun
comes up over the hill, they are there,
perfect and restful. When I come home,
they are grazing, still oblivious . . . I go out
while their backs have the moon on them,
the air thick, my feet wet with alfalfa. At night
they are the darkest shadows in the field.

Copyright © 2004 Jill Osier All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission