Poetry
Poems come in fits and starts and when I am overcome with emotion. I wrote Unending Memory after Smirnoff died. He was a 31-year-old thoroughbred who had been my friend for over 25 years.
Unending Memory
I remember the sun’s warmth mingling
the aromas of sweating horse and oiled leather and
my breathlessness as we galloped and
the creak of saddle and boot and
the thudding rhythm of his hoof beats and
surging power beneath my hand and hip and
a streaming mane and that arching neck and
the oneness of being and nothing—
nothing but smooth paths and
unending potential.
I remember the sun’s warmth piercing
a cold winter’s day with stark shadows and
a sleeping horse with his nose in the dirt and
legs folded beneath belly and
me curling into the curve of that broad neck and
hands on his strong shoulders closing my eyes and
the quiet rhythm of breathing together and
inhaling strength and courage and nothing—
nothing but light breezes and
unending repose.
I remember the sun’s warmth igniting
my one-year-old’s golden curls and
her tiny fingers fisted in a black mane and
palms plastered against that sleek neck and
chubby legs wrapping an undulating back and
the steady rhythm of his walk and a contented sigh and
delirious hiccups and toothless grins and
the first utterance of giddyup and nothing—
nothing but carefree giggles and
unending joy.
I remember the sun’s warmth drawing
the musty scent of old hay and manure from
a shed at the end of a frosted field where
he stood stiff-legged and hunched and
still greeted me with a last nicker and
the uneven rhythm of labored breathing and
him collapsing with heavy head in my hands and
me sobbing into that still-warm neck and nothing—
nothing but flowing tears and
unending memory.
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