Horse

I look for it in my memory, and sometimes
it will not arrive, that horse that is all horses
is lost in some distant music.
The shadows under the tree are empty,
the shape of the horse that is not there.
When I was a horse, when I was drumbeat
carving the grass becomes a melody
lost to wind. Wind recalls the horse,
reminds of the twitching ears. It stalks
the back field alone, minds the sky, turns
its head to note time of day. Estranged,
it flickers, and I am spellbound waiting
for the refrain to return. I listen
for the wonder, with sun at its back,
to pound in a joy that holds the field open.