copeland morris HORSES WATCH MY DREAMS

 

There were millions of years, at least
Of petite horses, slipping inconspicuously

Beneath primordial fronds, hiding in
The ground cover, peeping from under
Bromeliads, almost as shy as chameleons.
When did their articulate little hooves begin
To thunder?--filling out their long strides?

We inherit some movement known to them,
Their noble way of standing idle, gazing
Into the pasture. Their need to dream exists,
A fragrance of grass on which they feed.
May they watch your dreams, my dear one,
As they have watched mine. And may they ever
Approach your open hands, in peace.