A Long, Slow Walk
I stood on the other side
of the fence,
one rail up,
watching her,
waiting,
hoping
that she'd come close,
close enough to catch
a scent of me
so she would
trust
that I wanted nothing more
than to touch
her face.
I stepped down
and she jerked
at the movement,
watching from the corner
of those big,
black eyes.
But she stood there,
still,
still.
She wanted me
to touch her.
I knew she did.
Or so I thought.
She huffed
and turned away
suddenly
to her oats,
seemingly not tempted
by the green, green grass
I held out for her.
She was holding out too,
holding out against
her own desires.
But who could blame her?
The human touch,
at least in her wild eyes,
is no tender
or merciful
thing.
I could only
whisper,
"It wasn't me.
Beautiful,
I promise,
it wasn't me.
I don't want to hurt you.
I won't."
But she walked away.
Night fell
and I slept
fitfully
through dreams
of a daisy-covered meadow
and a mare
happy and free.
I sat there
in the tall grass,
pulling petals
one by one.
"He loves me not.
He loves me not.
He loves me not."
When a sudden,
but subtle warmth,
too warm to be a breeze,
caught itself
in my hair.
And I turned
slowly,
so slowly
to see
two big, beautiful,
black eyes
staring back
at me.
I reached a slow
and trembling palm
and laid it softly
on her face.
Before long,
I laid my forehead there
and we both
rested
in the moment.
Then we walked
side by side,
stopping for a drink
from the clear waters
of the brook.
I woke at the reflection
of the mare and I
on the water's surface.
Next day
I went out
to see her,
hoping it wasn't all
just a dream.
But startled
by the sound
of my footsteps,
she threw her head back
with such pride
and turned away.
"I've got all day.
Tomorrow too.
I won't touch you
until you want me to.
I know you want me to."
I got comfortable
sitting
on the corner post
of the fence,
legs hanging down
on her side,
green, green grass
held in my still hand.
I knew,
anytime she wanted to,
she could have knocked me
off that fence.
The sun
was getting low
and I almost gave up,
was about to head
on home,
when one slow step
by one slow,
cautious step,
she made her way
toward me.
It was at that moment
I discovered
that I was afraid,
afraid and at awe.
I'd waited so long.
My heart raced
and I wanted to hold a hand
over it
to slow it.
But I didn't move
as she reached out
for the green, green grass.
And as she ate
from my hand,
I reached up slowly
to touch her face.
Only a flash
of fear
shone in her eyes,
then she closed them
at my touch.
I'm not sure,
but I think I saw
a tear.
I want
only
to take a long,
slow walk,
without reins,
through a meadow
where the daisies
are comfortably silent
and the only sound
is water
flowing over
the rocks.
© Joyce Pool
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