Joy to the Horses

I don’t write about joy.
Not about the way it is to stand
in a green field surrounded by flowers,
sunlight dappled across amber flanks.
Not about the soft honk of geese
going home.
Not about the crisp-scented apples,
the falling snow-blossoms.
Not about you.

I write about teeth. And hooves.
Cutting hammers of steel-shod grief.
The burning blind of sudden light.
The beat of wings bruising
the violet sky.
The rot and stink and buzz
of bees around the dying.
The free fall, the thudding land.
Not about you.

To be happy, I don’t need to
stick my head in the oven
fill my pockets with rocks
turn on the motor and close the door
wrap a noose and a neck
follow the main vein
turn the teeth in on myself
follow the crowd
fall into rot
write about joy.

Isn’t being silent and grateful
just enough?

No? Then:

Joy to the horses.
Joy to the dappling.
Joy to the sunlight.
Joy to calling home.
Joy to the winged ones.
Joy to the sweet savor.
Joy to the falling free.
Joy to the soft landing.
Joy to being savored
before we rot.

But mostly
joy to the hooves and the sting,
the bite and break,
the decay and the devouring,
the black seeds in the darkest corners
that give way to wonder.



Quickwrite this morning before I attend to “real work” (read: paying but sometimes soul-draining work). The necklace, a recent gift, has a lot of meanings, but joy is certainly one of them.

This entry was published on February 20, 2012 at 10:33 am and is filed under February, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “[51]

  1. Love it when you get back to nature!

  2. You’re the nature poet in this family, baby! I just pretend sometimes 🙂

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