Above the forests,
Past tundra,
Upon cold ice,
We dance in secret there,
And decorate a merry May pole
With many hangman’s nooses.
And we sit on front porches in the dim light,
Talking about everything.
And beneath the ice and almost forgotten,
Our brothers and sisters still sleep,
Dazed and chained,
Unbooted and frozen,
Riding wild mustangs
Over rough, icy pavement
Across park benches
Behind iron and walls
Chasing the moon.
As we finally look up at our moon,
We start to remember our horses.
"Where is my horse?" somebody thinks to wonder.
"Where is my horse?" she asks in increasing terror,
Her breath visible, swirling tendrils in icy wind.
"What horse?" I reply lazily.
I look up from an angel
I made in the snow.
"This horse, silly!"
Someone points at cold, thin air with a mitten
And grins.
"My horse is in the barn,"
A gentle teenage girl swallows, "Isn’t it?"
"My barn is gone.
"It burned down,"
A bundled man still remembers.
His warm smile cannot hide
The pain the memory causes.
"And the horses don’t come back, ever.
"They get away. You should know that."
Our eyes track the moon’s path,
But our feet rest solidly on ice.
A woman in collapsed sorrow on her knees
And cradling something very long gone
Screams through tears, "Damn the horses!
"Where is my son? I don’t know him anymore."
Our memory of horses soon fades
And we join others,
Gathering around warm fire in a barrel,
Stamping our feet as if dancing,
And talking about everything.
Laughing and weeping,
We raise empty barns, and drinking cold beer afterwards,
Smile in silent wonder at our works,
Standing on the ice,
Shivering regretfully,
In our cold domain,
And dreaming about lost horses.