When did you visit the meadow,
to watch the wild foals
as they learned to stand alone?
Were you ashamed of their faltering,
red faced with furrowed brows?
Did you spite the bloody hocks that could not hold you,
the wild hearts that did not want to?
Who took you there before,
and when did you take it upon yourself to break them?
When the chore too burdensome,
and the feral love unattainable-
when your hands too heavy,
and the untamed ones undesirable-
did you ride the weakest one?
Did it lick your feet
and fumble in its own,
as you led it elsewhere,
to cut the muscles that it grew for you?
Did you think the buttercups were beautiful
and frolic in the flowers with understanding?
Were there songs of heavy breathing,
as you looked at your broken ankle,
in the dense blue grass?
Did you turn back to discover only yellow-
conscious of breaking and mending-
or did you keep your head fixed steady to your feet?
Did you both know
the crippling feeling,
of love being put out to pasture,
and learning to be wild again?
